Edge of Chaos
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: House wakes up from the deep brain stimulation to a life without Wilson. Now, as House's life begins to fall into chaos, he searches for meaning, forgiveness, and friendship. House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and House/Wilson friendships. CHAPTER 15 IS UP.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This fic contains spoilers for all of season four and picks up where "Wilson's Heart" left off. Although this particular chapter is a flash forward, the rest of the fic will occur in chronological order. Each chapter, like the overall fic itself, is titled and built around a particular scientific theory/law/concept.

A humungous thanks to my beta, Olly, for working extremely hard to make this as good as it could possibly be. I really appreciate it.

Please read and review.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show, so don't sue me._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter One: Theia Arrives  
**_By Duckie Nicks _

"_The giant impact hypothesis for the Moon's origin still holds center stage. This idea suggests that the Moon formed as the result of a colossal impact on the accumulating Earth, heating it and flinging the raw ingredients for the Moon into orbit around the Earth… It leads to a dynamic and somewhat terrifying picture of the first few hundred million years for both bodies." - NASA_

The rain pinged loudly against the glass, amplifying the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears. Droplet after droplet lazily cascading down the windowpane, the storm was likely to continue on through the night. Which would mean there was no end in sight for his pain, the one no amount of Vicodin could rid him of.

Gazing at his twisted reflection in the glass, House understood that sleep would be out of the question. These days he needed almost complete silence to fall into slumber, and the chances of that happening were always slim to none. His eyes heavy, bones tired, and muscles sore, House couldn't afford another night without sleep; thanks to the constant pain in his ear, there had been too few of those already.

Resting his forehead on the cool windowpane, House tried to will the rain and ringing away. _Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop _ – each word reverberated in his still healing skull, punctuated by the sound of water slamming into the glass. It was futile, he knew. No amount of will could make the dark clouds sprawling out against the summer dusk disappear. And there was definitely no way he could wish his wounds away.

But… accepting this pain was not in his DNA. So he continued to plea with whatever or whoever could be listening to make it _stop_.

Perhaps if he were a better-adjusted person, he could accept his current reality. Then again, if he were one of _those_ people, none of this would have happened; because, if he'd been able to let Wilson have a social life, or if he'd been able to… not _cling_ to things as they were, then maybe all of this could have been avoided.

But the reality was: he was a stubborn ass and had always been so. And the tinnitus was unlikely to go away; Wilson wasn't going to come back, and Cuddy could tend to all of their wounds, but they wouldn't _all_ heal.

_He_ wouldn't heal.

And he'd be alone in that; after all was said and done, Cuddy would be fine and so would Wilson. Of course nobody would believe House _now,_ but the truth was Wilson would turn out okay. Because thinking about Amber would probably always hurt, but, a year from now, he'd find another take charge, deluded Hillary Clinton supporter. And she wouldn't be Amber, but she'd be _a_ cutthroat bitch, and Wilson would settle for her.

Which in some ways was a misnomer, because he'd probably be happier with the mystery lady than he could have ever been with CB the Original. Because… now House wouldn't be around to interfere.

It was a truth that hurt more than the painful ringing in his ear: Wilson would be _happier_ without House constantly around.

And Cuddy could mend his skull, but she couldn't fix _that_.

Pulling himself away from the window, House repeated to himself: she couldn't fix it.

And what really struck him was _not_ that Wilson wasn't coming back. Because… cells divided, and Theia split the Earth and Moon, and even light fractured. Things fell apart, and people grew distant, and… If he could couch it in scientific terms, then he could say it was just a law of nature and no more personal than a bird chirping loudly at three in the morning.

It wasn't an entirely convincing argument, but maybe if he told himself that enough times, Wilson's absence wouldn't hurt anymore.

No, House thought, returning to the safer topic at hand, what surprised him more and more each day were his increasing expectations of Cuddy.

Setting down on the couch, he couldn't help but think the view she had of herself was rubbing off on him. Again _no_, he didn't believe she could make everything okay; he had holed himself in his apartment for a while now, but he hadn't completely severed ties with his sanity.

And maybe that was the difference between him and her. He understood she wasn't perfect, but for whatever reason, she _did_ believe she could make everything okay. Which normally would have driven him crazy, but now… House found it hard to take offense at it. Perhaps he was just desperate to believe she was right, but nevertheless, part of him really _was_ hoping she had those abilities.

Carefully lifting his right leg onto the couch with his hands, he _knew_ she really _wasn't_ that good. Instinctively his fingers found their way to his right thigh… what was left of it anyway. Though he was wearing jeans, House could still feel the uneven skin underneath the worn denim. Here it was, he thought, the pads of his fingers meandering about the raised tissue; _this_ was the proof that Cuddy wasn't capable of miracles.

It was evidence that they had _both_ failed as doctors.

And now, ever since the bus accident, his life seemed to be a retest for them both. They'd had eight years to learn something and several quizzes (like when he electrocuted himself) along the way. This, he supposed, was the big chance for them to figure out what he needed. This was the final to a ninety-six month semester.

But so far, only of them seemed to have any clue as to what that was. And though he _should_ have been the one to know what was good for him, House couldn't help but realize it _wasn't_.

So maybe it was okay to believe in Cuddy's abilities (at least secretly), because _she_ had at least learned something.

She'd been right, after all, about the deep brain stimulation. They had both known that the procedure would be dangerous, could be fatal, but out of the two, he'd been the one to still want it. And in the end, House wished he _hadn't_ had the surgery.

The effects it had had on his body aside, the stimulation had been futile in saving Amber's life. In fact the only thing the procedure had seemed to accomplish was make him more miserable, because now he had all of the memories from _that_ night.

The added voltage to his brain had brought it all hurling back at him in the lushest detail a memory could possibly possess. The words he'd said when he'd tried to call Wilson, how he'd stubbornly refused to wait for Amber at the bar… how he'd watched her take the Amantadine before the bus crashed – it was all permanently seared into his mind, thanks to Chase.

And House wished he hadn't remembered any of it.

Pushing the thought aside, he tried to steer himself back to safer ideas. From the beginning, Cuddy had been right. About that _and_ the feeding tube _and _the antidepressants and every other aspect of the medicine. She'd been able to make the correct call so many times in the last several weeks that House was beginning to wonder if there was something _else_ wrong with his mind.

The idea alone terrified him, made worse by the fact that he could see himself… trusting Cuddy's judgment more than his own. That he should lose his genius, his ability, was one thing; that _Cuddy_, the second-rate doctor without a backbone, should be _smarter_ than he was… was another. _That_ was the real rub, if not the sole reason for his dissatisfaction.

The rational part of himself had to admit that she'd been right about almost everything so far. And so, it was oddly that same piece of him that believed her when she'd told him she _would_ get Wilson to House's apartment. The House that believed in patterns and scientific fact could only trust Cuddy to do what she said, because there'd been a precedent.

Of course, House realized, that maybe he'd never _really_ believed her.

Contemplating it some more, he thought that perhaps part of him had just _wanted_ to believe what she'd said. Because if Cuddy could get Wilson here, then there was still hope. Then there would still be a chance of keeping his best friend in his orbit.

But now, the sun was beginning to set, and both Wilson and Cuddy should have been here hours ago if this was going to happen at all. Which filled him with a sick pleasure, in a way, because it meant Cuddy had been _wrong_, and he'd been right; he'd told her that Wilson wouldn't agree to the meeting. And though part of him had wanted to be wrong, another part had desperately needed to see that he _could_ evaluate a situation correctly.

Glancing around his apartment then, House wished he'd been wrong. Because Wilson and Cuddy's noticeable absence made his heart race and his lungs feel as though all the oxygen had left the room.

And unable to breathe, he was forced to see it now – the stark loneliness surrounding his life, the emptiness within his existence.

There really was no hope.

Things weren't going to get better, he realized.

The air getting caught in his tightening throat, House let out a rough exhale. As he tried to take another deep breath, he swore the room was getting smaller. The walls practically on top of him, he felt as though he were being strangled by the collapsing space around him.

Wilson wasn't coming.

The pounding in his head ratcheted up another notch. Louder and more oppressive than ever before, House could not think. His brain unable to process anything else, all he could focus on was the high-pitched squeal radiating through him. Words dying inside of him, only a deep groan, matching the duration of the loud sound within, escaped.

House closed his eyes involuntarily at the cacophony of noise. Alone in his dark but hardly silent world, he had no way of escaping, no one to pull him out of the raging tide. His mouth opened instinctively to take another ragged breath, but the noise inside refused to release its hold on his lungs.

He was drowning, the sound of waves crashing suffocating him. The torrential rain outside seemed to surround him, the noise getting louder and louder till he couldn't distinguish one drop from another. His hand reached out to pull himself out of the ocean, reached out for someone – _Cuddy_ – but all his fingers grasped was the soft chenille blanket messily splayed out next to him. He was completely alone, and there was no one to help him.

And there was no hope for him to cling onto.

Not since he'd been in the hospital had he felt his desolation so keenly. There had been moments along the way, but thanks to the haze of anti-depressants, it hadn't been _this_ bad for a while. But this was worse than ever before, because he'd had Cuddy and drugs in the hospital to stave off the feeling as best he could. Now he had nothing, and with no protective layer, House couldn't keep out the despair, the pain.

And just as it threatened to take hold of him permanently, there was a sound – two loud knocks. The staccato noise pierced through the haze of his inner symphony, forcing House to breathe harshly once more.

On shaky legs, he stood up, his muscles clenching and unclenching at odd intervals. His palms were sweaty, and he could already feel several beads of moisture dotting his brow.

Two more knocks abruptly burst into the air, nearly making House see stars. His eyelids fluttered shut, as he once more tried to will the sound away. When that didn't work, he sighed, giving up. And dazed he answered the door, his blue eyes unfocused on what was in front of him.

But he didn't need clear vision, the sight of Wilson so familiar despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other in a long time.

They looked one another over, House particularly careful in doing so. His friend had lost weight, his eyes… sunken somehow. And the irises had darkened and dulled, and they weren't filled with the oppressive caring typical of Wilson. House had expected as much, and once again, he was filled with the double-edged sword of being right.

"Are you high?" Wilson asked in amazement, the words interrupting House's thoughts.

The question wasn't exactly how he would have wanted this conversation to start. Questions like _that_ practically begged for a sarcastic comment, which wouldn't help _at all_. But he couldn't resist, never had been able to. "Nurse Ratched keeps the drugs with her," he replied somewhat bitterly.

Truth be told, it wasn't absurd of Cuddy to do it – even House could see that. But sometimes, like now, when he really needed _something_, it was impractical for her to be his walking pharmacy.

Shaking his head as much as the ringing would allow, he thought that was the one of the only times he'd be able to use the phrase, walking pharmacy, negatively. He hoped that would be the case, anyway.

"Right," Wilson said loudly, in a way that made House think his friend was testing him. "Withdrawal then?"

Part of him thought that he should protest, as the pain he felt was very real. But he couldn't find it in him to do it. For one, the ringing in his ear really _was_ his own fault, just as much as withdrawal would have been. And… either way Wilson was going to believe what he wanted, so House merely shrugged.

"Right. Well, I can't stay long. Cuddy told me to stop by," Wilson explained. His wording was awkward, just like the tension between them.

This wouldn't have happened before the accident; even in their worst of moments, there was still a comfortableness between them. But now, it was obvious that that had changed, that the camaraderie they once shared was missing.

They… were no longer friends, House realized.

Of course, he'd suspected it before now – that things between them were permanently altered, if not severed altogether. The doubt had begun at the hospital, as he lay in that uncomfortable bed with Cuddy by his side. He'd woken up and shortly after seen Wilson's face. His eyes had been unfocused, but there had been no missing the look of frustration, of sadness, of patience being worn out. And rather than yelling or lecturing, Wilson had been silent and brooding, and House had suspected that the reason for it was simple: Wilson had given up the fight to save their friendship.

But _this_ was confirmation of what he'd feared.

The one thing he'd never wanted to have happen… was here, lying at his feet.

And it almost made House wonder why they had wasted so much energy on one another over the years. They'd – well, probably mainly Wilson – had tried so hard to cocoon their bond from everything and everyone else. But in the end, that effort didn't pay off in results, because here it was stripped bare and broken anyway.

They'd tried so hard to avoid this, but none of their hard work seemed to yield much, he thought grimly. And part of him couldn't help but wonder why he was doing this at all. What was the point of trying to repair something that was broken and was destined to break again?

Nevertheless, pushing the thought aside, House waved Wilson inside. Lamely he told himself that, if for nothing else, this could make their break up official.

As they both took seats on the couch, Wilson asked, "So Cuddy's living with you?"

God this was awkward, House thought, swallowing hard. He nodded his head in response as gingerly as he could. "It's temporary," he justified, to whom he didn't really know. And though it was pretty obvious that Wilson was just trying to make small talk, this particular topic was one House didn't want to dwell on. So he joked sarcastically, "Soon as Foreman gets a cap busted in his ass or Cameron has an accident with the peroxide, Cuddy'll move onto them."

His words earned a laugh from Wilson, but it was a _humorless_ chuckle, the kind the oncologist gave when he was preparing to give a lecture. And there was no smile on his face when he asked, "You think she's treating you just like she would anyone else in your position?"

"No," House replied, bitterness creeping into his voice. "I think she's doing this to satisfy her guilt complex." Once more, Wilson let out that _laugh_, which only made the ringing in House's head clang even harder. "What? It's true."

"You're unbelievable, House," Wilson said in disbelief. Holding his hands up, palms facing House, Wilson continued, "Just this _once_, I was hoping… that things would change for you."

Sarcastically, he nearly snapped, "_Right._ See, I was thinking spending every waking moment with _Cuddy_ in my drug-free, porn-free, fun-free apartment _was_ a change. And a crappy one at that. But you're right. Nothing's changed. That jumbo box of super tampons in my bathroom has always been there."

"All right, certain things have changed, but you… _haven't_, and I –"

Shifting on the couch, House rolled his eyes. "You've been here two minutes. You don't know –"

"Come on, House!" His voice was not a yell, but there were enough decibels in it to make House wince in pain.

Wilson's hands bunching into fists, he argued, "After _everything_ you've done, someone still has the patience to stand by you, and _you_ resent it. _Cuddy_ has bent over _backwards_ to keep you happy, and you feel _trapped_!"

The oncologist's tone was borderline hysterical, making House feel guilty. Maybe even… ashamed, because there was more truth in the words than House would have liked to admit. Because… in all honesty, he resented Cuddy just as much as he didn't. Particularly in the beginning, her presence had made him feel as though she thought he was helpless. And, granted, after waking in the hospital, House probably _did_ need the constant care she offered.

But it had been hard to appreciate, because it involved such a violation of his sovereignty. She'd taken his Vicodin, his porn stash – even his right to sleep and bathe without her _watching._

It had been – _was_ – a pain. That didn't mean, however, that Wilson was right entirely. House could… in some ways appreciate what she was doing, as much as he could appreciate anything.

But really what it came down to was simple: the need to keep her close by, to have at least one person who wouldn't leave, outweighed the fear of letting her get too close.

Of course, putting _that_ into words for Wilson to hear was impossible; it risked displaying a side House would have preferred to keep hidden. So… he said nothing, because it was the only way to keep his feelings about Cuddy a secret.

And it was immediately apparent what the price for his secret was: the last shred of hope Wilson had in him.

"You have a beautiful, smart, successful woman willing to do _anything_ to help you," Wilson said.

"What – you want her?" House asked sarcastically.

"_This_ isn't a game," he snapped. "You can't just… play _swapsies_!" Wilson raised his hands to his temples, rubbing the area with his fingers for a moment. Then he said, more quietly, _thankfully_, "Cuddy chose you. Over her job, over her other –"

"You mean she chose me over _you_," House spoke, reading between the lines. To confirm, his blue eyes focused on Wilson, looking for some sign. And in the man's weary brown irises, there was no hint of denial.

"You know she didn't even come to Amber's funeral?" Though the words weren't said, House could _hear_ the accusation in his voice.

"Probably on account of the fact that she didn't like her," House offered.

Really, it was an asshole thing to say, and he knew it the moment the words had been uttered. And even though he was aware that he should apologize, he couldn't. The great divide between them had widened infinitely, and no amount of sorry's could fill the gap.

So he didn't try.

"You're an ass," Wilson said viciously. "You've been sitting here for weeks, no doubt feeling bad. And I _believed_ Cuddy when she said it was because of me and –"

"Yeah. I _can't_ stop thinking about you, Wilson. Wanna see the shrine I built?"

"But she was _wrong_. You don't feel bad about what you _did_." Wilson shook his head in disgust at the thought. "All you've been thinking about is yourself, what _you_ don't have." His face turning red, the other man stood up. "I lost the woman I wanted to spend my _life_ with. Who I honestly _could_ have done that with. And _you_ didn't lose _anything." _

Wilson's humorless laugh returned. "You _gained_ from all this. A lot. You got someone who's _voluntarily_ putting up with your insanity. And you can't even appreciate that." He angled his body away then, so House couldn't see his eyes.

But it didn't matter, because House could see other things, including the way the other man swallow hard.

More quietly, Wilson finished, "You can't appreciate our _friendship_ enough to stop _joking _about it."

At that point, House stood as well, needing to move around and escape the guilt trip his… ex-friend was laying on him. But before he could say anything, Wilson told him, "Just… _don't_," throwing a hand in the air to ward him off.

The front door opened as the word, "Wilson," filled the air.

But House knew it was pointless.

Silence descended onto the room, breaking only when the same door slammed shut.

_End (1/15)_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thanks to xravenscroftx, Caz, DoctorLisaCuddy, bmax, HotlipsPierce, momsboys, and Roy-Fan-33 for the reviews. The encouragement and feedback are much appreciated. Also thank you to my beta, Olly, for her hard work.

Please read and review.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show, so don't sue me._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Two: Sound of Silence  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_In quantum physics, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle is… often explained as the statement that the measure of position necessarily disturbs a particle's momentum, and vice versa – i.e. that the uncertainty principle is a manifestation of the observer effect. This explanation is sometimes misleading in a modern contest, because it makes it seem that the disturbances are somehow conceptually avoidable." -- Wikipedia's "Uncertainty Principle" Entry _

**Two Months Earlier…**

Silence had descended on the room not unlike the way snow fell onto her lawn in the middle of November. Creeping in at odd moments, like the first few flurries from the sky, the quiet had almost been easy to ignore. But quickly enough, the pauses had lengthened, stretched out until the room was blanketed in a forced hush, just as, within hours, it became impossible to see the grass in her yard.

And it seemed like a lifetime ago when the area of the ICU had been filled with noise. The squeaking wheels of a hospital bed, the soft sound of a nurse twisting and moving House's IV, and the accented tones of Chase explaining to her what had happened had practically engulfed her.

"We did the deep brain stimulation," he had told her simply, without the guilt she'd believed the surgeon should be feeling.

"_Yeah_. Figured that out," Cuddy had responded, her anger lacing every syllable. Though she could see now that she'd been unfair to Chase, at the time, she hadn't cared; House had been hurt, and Amber had been dying, and those two things had been much more important to her than her Head of Surgery's feelings.

Of course, Chase hadn't been alone in being the target of her ire. Her attention focusing back towards House, Cuddy had barked at the nurse tending to him, "I'll do that."

The other woman had just started working at the hospital, so the look of surprise, shock, and maybe terror on her face hadn't been all that unexpected, Cuddy had thought. The unfamiliar face had yet to learn it, but she would learn soon enough that her boss had never handled these situations diplomatically. Because the hospital _was_ Cuddy's baby, her job her life, and whenever there'd been a crisis, her first instinct had been to protect her baby and _fix_ it before her head exploded.

As Cuddy had taken over replacing one of the IV bags hanging near House, Chase had calmly continued to explain, "The preset maximums weren't enough to give us any new information."

"Then you should have _stopped_," she had told him, her voice faltering when she'd looked down at House. His body pale and still, there hadn't been any change since they'd brought him into the ICU moments ago.

"Vitals were good. Wilson wanted to keep going –"

"_Wilson_ was worried about Amber."

"And if we hadn't continued with the procedure, House wouldn't have remembered her taking the Amantadine, and they'd be no closer to a diagnosis," Chase had said, folding his arms across his chest.

As his words had begun to sink in, Cuddy had realized the prognosis for Wilson's girlfriend. Quietly, she'd said, "She's going to die." There'd been no question in the sentence, no real hope in it either. Because the chances of restarting Amber's heart _now_ had been slim, and Cuddy had understood they'd never be able to list her for a transplant. And glancing down at House once more, she'd worried that the same might be true for him. "You should have stopped the procedure," she'd said admonishingly. "You should have told House no."

"_Right_. Because we always tell House no when he wants to do something dangerous and stupid," Chase had retorted immediately.

And Cuddy hadn't been able to deny the truth in his words, her body flinching at the honesty. So she'd changed the subject instead. "Try and restart her heart. Let me know what happens."

With a nod from Chase, the conversation had ended there. Amidst the slowly descending silence, the sound of his footsteps had drawn her attention away from House long enough to watch the younger man leave. Her blue eyes focusing on him, she'd been unable to stop herself from noticing the arrogant set of his shoulders. The lines strong and angular even underneath his lab coat, he'd been leaving, she'd realized, with the same amount of confidence he'd always had.

Nothing had changed in him, because… Chase hadn't felt guilty _at all._ And _that_ hadn't made any sense to her, because how could he _not_ feel responsible? After all, Cuddy herself hadn't even been _around_ for the procedure, and she'd _still_ felt guilt gnaw at her.

Which was why, she supposed, she still stood guard hours after the conversation, staying with him lest she leave and he die as punishment for doing so.

Writing down his latest stats on his chart, Cuddy stood tiredly at the end of his bed. A mere six feet or so away from his face was the farthest her invisible tether would allow her to go. Shackled by her own culpability (why hadn't she taken House off the case?), she could go no further.

Not since Amber had died anyway.

Though only a few hours had passed since Wilson's heart had been broken, something in Cuddy had changed dramatically since then. Which was odd, she thought, given she'd known the likelihood of Amber dying, not to mention Cuddy had never really cared for the other woman.

Or maybe that was unfair. The two women hadn't ever spent much time with one another. The occasional phone call about what House had done hardly made them friends, no more so than the other dozens of people who called weekly to complain about him anyway.

Really, from an objective standpoint, Cuddy thought that absolutely nothing should have changed for her once Amber had died. Sure, she could be sad for Wilson, but there was no reason for her to feel so… _tied_ to House.

But whatever the reason, things had changed from before they'd called time of death. Before, Cuddy had been able to leave House's side long enough to talk to Wilson and grab a cup of coffee out of the vending machines.

With Amber gone, however, Cuddy's priorities had changed dramatically, because now she was too afraid of what might happen if she left the ICU. Placing the metal chart back onto the end of the bed where it belonged, she sat back down next to House.

For the past couple hours, this had been her routine. Caught somewhere between doctor and family, she'd nearly worn through the points of her heels walking about. Never staying seated for long, she would, every few minutes, get up and check his vitals by hand, needing a reason to feel his warm skin and reassure herself with the beating of his heart underneath her fingertips. And once Cuddy was satisfied that he was still _alive_, she would rub his arm and straighten the already neatly folded linens covering him before doing the same with his IV line. Afterwards, once she was convinced everything was in its proper place, Cuddy would mark down any changes in his chart.

Her body in almost constant motion, she'd gone through her routine enough times that House's chart was probably the best kept record of _anything_ in the entire hospital. Everything about him was in the chart – BP from five minutes ago, temperature from eight. Each and every last little detail logged in her own scrawl, _nothing_, she'd decided,was too small to exclude. And she didn't know if that made her feel more like an inexperienced med student or a paranoid doctor who had spent too many years watching House play with his puzzles.

Placing a hand tentatively on his, Cuddy knew he would no doubt choose the former option. He would _once again_ say that she hadn't been a doctor in years, and were he to take a glance at the chart she was keeping for him… he'd probably have it framed and hung in his office as a monument to her incompetence.

Then again, she thought, as she laced her fingers through his, that would only happen if he looked at the chart. And for a second, Cuddy contemplated on hiding it from him. But then, as if the Dean of Medicine part of her suddenly reasserted itself, she looked at what she was doing.

She was holding his hand, sitting by his side – being a doctor with no sense of propriety. And though House would hardly care about what was _proper_, he _would_ accuse her of being too emotional and attached. Really it was hard not to picture it now; he would wake up and begin to make sarcastic remarks, and he would never need to see his chart. Because he'd already have enough ammunition to make her wish she'd never set foot in the ICU.

Standing up once more, Cuddy couldn't decide if it was _that_ inevitability or the caffeine flowing through her veins that made it impossible to sit still. Her heels clicking on the linoleum floor, she moved closer towards House's unmoving body. And it was then that she realized what was truly bothering her, what was _really_ tying her to this room and to him.

The usually ceaseless, restless man was no longer moving about in the frenetic way he so often did. Here he was, not playing with his ball or Gameboy. Instead, the only outward sign that he was still alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. As her fingers moved towards the side of his neck, she could feel the gentle puffs of air being exhaled from his nose. But even that was a small reassurance, because this silent breathing was completely unlike how he usually sounded when he slept.

Which sounded _creepy_, Cuddy realized, as the tips of her fingers slid into the spot where his jaw and neck met. The rough stubble that hadn't been shaved in a long time underneath the soft pads of her fingertips, she began to count each beat of his heart.

Keeping her tally going as she returned to her thoughts, Cuddy understood that it was odd to know the sounds House usually made while he slept. Or rather, she could understand why someone else would think it was odd. She herself could not see it as bizarre or anything less than normal, having interrupted many an afternoon nap in the clinic to know the precise way he would usually snore ever so slightly.

His heart rate normal and unchanged, Cuddy moved onto the next part of her task and began to pull at the thin sheets. The almost rough linens hadn't shifted since she'd last touched them, she knew. Still pressed neatly around House's body, they'd stayed in the exact same place she had left them.

But that was no comfort at all.

All that meant was… he hadn't moved.

And that, combined with Amber's death being in the forefront of her memory, scared her more than she wanted it to.

Tucking the sheets back down around him, Cuddy couldn't stop herself from wondering if _this_ was it, if this was the time when House pushed himself so far that there was no going back. Instinctively, she wanted to tell herself no, wanted to believe that his own stubbornness would make death or coma impossible. But then…

Unbidden, the image of Amber dying asserted itself, forced her to see that…

Sheer will didn't mean anything.

And true, House had escaped death several times, but at some point, he wouldn't be so lucky. There _would_, no matter what she did, come a time when no amount of trying to save him would work. Though in so many ways it seemed impossible, he would _die_. If not now, sometime in the future, and the way he lived his life, that would probably be sooner than later.

The thought made her feel sick to her stomach, the force hitting her so hard that she had no choice but to sit down. The thin mattress dipped as she nearly collapsed on the bed next to House, her bottom brushing up against his covered thigh. Her back turned to him, she thought, if… this really was _it_ for him, then _nothing_ she did or could do would make a difference either.

She could sit by him and fuss every few minutes over him and keep his chart up to date using the neatest handwriting she could all she wanted. But those things _wouldn't_ fix him. _Couldn't_ fix him, simply because she believed she had that power.

And yet… a small part of her, the same sliver of Cuddy left that still wished on shooting stars, searched for four-leaf clovers when she mowed her lawn, and still believed she might get married and have children – _that_ part whispered to her in that moment.

If there was any chance at all that her actions _did_ matter…

She had to stay.

Her own will finding renewed strength, Cuddy stood once more and turned to face House. She would not leave him, would not stop her careful watch, even if it seemedhopeless.

And at that moment, as she gazed down at him, House's eyes opened.

Not a sigh of relief, nor words of comfort, escaped her at first, because it had been so long since he'd been awake. And her first reaction was to blink, somewhere between afraid and convinced that this couldn't be real. In the maroon-stained darkness beneath her closed lids, she prayed desperately for it to be something more than a mirage.

Slowly, she took a peek once more, her breathy exhale, muddled by a desire to cry and laugh, immediate.

He was _here_.

His irises a dull rainwater gray, House was no longer exuding his own brand of vibrant misery. And as the once bright, brilliant eyes moved around unfocused – _lost_ – Cuddy felt the need to be closer.

This time, her heels seemed to make no sound at all, as she neither heard it and House didn't shift to look at her. Practically scrambling to his side, she planted the palms of her hands on his mattress and pillow. "Hey" was the first word to escape her mouth; the utterance unplanned and hardly comforting, Cuddy felt the need to keep talking, to fill the silence. Her voice still breathy, she told him, "I'm here."

Wiping away a curl dangling in front of her face, she could tell, as soon as the words had been said, that they'd been murmured too fast to be of any use. And it was almost ironic (and absolutely pathetic) how she'd waited here for him to wake up and hadn't given any thought to what she would say to him when he did. No prepared and practiced prose, no earthly idea what she should tell him, Cuddy couldn't help but think how… _inept_ she was at nurturing.

And almost immediately, completely unwanted, the words House had said to her so long ago – "_It's a good thing you failed to become a mom, 'cause you _suck_ at it!" _– popped into her head.

That particular wound had scarred over long ago, but thinking about it for any period of time _still_ made her stomach clench painfully. And indeed, all of the organs in her stomach seemed to tighten at the memory, as well as the possibility of him saying something similar now.

But instead, House said nothing.

His eyes continued to glance unfocused around him.

Like he hadn't even noticed she was in the room.

Her mouth closing ever so slightly, she used her own blue eyes to search his face for _some_ sign of recognition. Desperately the irises roved over him for something, _anything_.

But there was nothing.

Cautiously, fearfully, in monotone, she told him, "Blink if you can hear me."

There was a beat, a tiny fraction of a second of nothingness passing that felt like a slap to the face. An uneasy silence stretched out over them once more, surrounding and suffocating her. Time seemed to pass slowly, but each millisecond of quiet worked quickly to distinguish her hope.

Questions beginning to play in her mind, Cuddy was just starting wonder what they would do when House sighed.

The lines on his face changed ever so slightly in what she thought might be irritation. And when he blinked unevenly, she couldn't stop herself from realizing: this was the first time she'd ever been this… _ecstatic_ to annoy him. Joy welled up inside of her, radiating from her heart out to every corner of her body.

The sadness of Amber's death forgotten, she felt the tension leave her body. Relief forcing a dopey smile on her face, she let go of the breath she'd been unintentionally holding.

House was _okay_.

Words percolated in the back of her throat as she shifted on her feet. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, so many ways she wanted to comfort and kill him for doing the DBS.

All of it warring within her, Cuddy had to reach out and touch House's warm rough hand. The soft hairs dotting his wrist tickled the pads of her fingers, and she felt the frantic energy die inside of her.

It could wait.

She didn't need to do this now, because…

They had time.

That knowledge was still playing on her mind when House began to move his lips. His mouth barely shifting at all, the sounds he made were little more than breathy murmurs. None of it made sense, but it didn't matter, not right now anyway. If it were important, he could tell her tomorrow.

And if that part of his brain had been damaged, then… they would cross that road when they came to it.

For right now, however, she just wanted to be glad that he was alive.

Shaking her head, Cuddy told him, "No, shhh." That he _wanted_ to speak was a good thing, a good sign. And though she could understand the desire to do so, he needed to sleep. "Don't try to talk," she ordered, smiling. "Just rest."

Watching him, Cuddy could see the words sink in slowly. His eyes glanced upwards for a second, and she thought that he might fight her on it. But what defiance he might have had died quickly, his eyelids fluttering shut again.

The slumber that followed was not a natural one, but the kind borne from trauma and a cocktail of anti-convulsants and analgesics. It was the kind that, thankfully, allowed him to sleep through the commotion of moving a chair with the assistance of a loud ICU nurse.

Her own repose was quite different. Though she'd barely slept at all on House's chaise, Cuddy still found it hard to fall asleep in the small, mauve chair. The recliner was comfortable enough, she supposed, and her lithe body made it easy to huddle into the soft cushions. But the stress of the day – Amber dying, House nearly dying _twice_, and the rest of it – made it hard to settle down. And several times, she found herself jerking awake, convinced that something bad was happening.

So when she heard the doors to the ICU slide shut, Cuddy's first instinct, aside from shooting up straight in the chair, was to snap her head towards House. Practically shaking, she was relieved to see that, yes, he was lying in his bed, _still here._

And yet, that feeling didn't last long, because he looked, even from this short distance, even more lost and confused than before.

Pushing a strand of hair back, Cuddy started to say his name, but the word died in her throat. Because she realized that it would be impossible to ask him what had happened or what was wrong; he was too weak to talk, and asking him, she thought, would only make him frustrated. Slipping her heels on once more, Cuddy figured the best way to get answers was to talk to the person who had left the room.

As she headed towards the sliding glass doors, she turned her head and offered House a reassuring smile. She was more than a little aware that the gesture was probably lost on him and definitely couldn't be enough to make him feel relieved. And maybe unknowingly, he confirmed the thought by turning his head towards her. Slow and expectant, the movement made her feel… somehow as though she'd been _dared_ to leave his side. Which made no sense at all – and only served to make her more resolved to _stay._

Taking a few more small steps, Cuddy poked her head through the doorway. To the right, she saw nothing. To the left…

There was Wilson.

Broken looking, his hair unkempt, suit rumpled, and shoulders hunched, he was waiting for an elevator. Gone from the man was his natural, unassuming confidence, his ability to see death daily and still find some good in the world. Though she couldn't see him, had barely spoken to him, Cuddy didn't doubt that this was the case.

He'd lost the woman he loved… and there was no coming back from that, certainly not in a few hours anyway.

Cuddy swallowed hard, guilt strengthening its hold on her once more.

Why hadn't House called _her_?

Why hadn't she _forced_ him to deal with his addictions and problems before now?

And_, why_, after everything that had happened, did she still feel as though she didn't have the right to demand change from him?

The questions plagued her, no mental response convincing enough. Because he was House? Because he was pathetic and stubborn and childish? None of those answers seemed like good excuses anymore, and worse still… Cuddy wasn't sure she knew how to break that pattern of thinking, didn't know how to make things _right_.

Not that anything could ever make _this_ truly right.

But she needed to try, she realized. That was what a friend should do, in the least. And as she mentally tried to think of a way to make Wilson happy and House healthy again, Cuddy felt as though she had only a short amount of time to make _any_ change in their lives. The longer time dragged on, the more likely House would forget the sting of his wounds, the memory of Amber dying. Or… _at least_, he'd learn to couch it in rational terms. And Wilson would become angrier, less forgiving, less understanding, and Cuddy couldn't bear the thought of him turning into that.

She needed a plan, the clock beginning to tick in her mind. Her light blue eyes casting their gaze into the hallway, she searched for some sort of answer, as though what she needed to do could be contained in a physical object. Which was incredibly stupid, Cuddy was aware, but she looked anyway, only stopping when she caught sight of an actual clock mounted on a wall.

Reading the black hands, she realized how late it really was.

And Wilson was just leaving.

Immediately an image invaded her senses, feeling incredibly real. Closing her eyes briefly, Cuddy could see it – Wilson staying with Amber all of this time. By now the other woman's body would be cold, her soul long gone. But Wilson would have stayed anyway, too afraid to leave her. His gentle fingers stroking her hair, face, and skin – he'd probably laid with her, clinging to some sort of hope that it was a dream and that he would wake up with Amber.

But long after he had accepted that she was no longer here, he hadn't left her side. Unable to let her go, unable to send her to the morgue, the man had probably clutched at her until someone had told him he'd needed to leave. And Wilson would have done it, because that was the kind of person he was.

However, he wouldn't be able to return to his apartment – _her_ apartment – immediately. And so he had probably come here, to see House, to try and find some comfort in the fact that his best friend was still alive; he'd try to understand why Amber died and House hadn't.

But Cuddy knew all too well – and now Wilson did as well:

There were no real answers here. Just an unbearable shade of gray, like the color of her top and House's eyes. There were no answers, no clear path to take… no immediate sense of understanding.

The thought made Cuddy want to cry, want to chase after Wilson and throw her arms around him as she had only hours ago. Felt the need to do it, even though it wouldn't offer him any real comfort.

But before she could act, Wilson got on the elevator and left. Which was just as well, she thought with a sigh. As much as she wanted to go to him, Cuddy was acutely aware of the man behind her, whom she could not see, but whose eyes she felt on her nevertheless.

She couldn't leave House.

Even if he wanted her to, even if he _expected_ her to do it, she couldn't find it in herself to part from him. Because, despite everything that had happened, he had earned the right to have someone sit with him. Which wasn't to say that Wilson _didn't_. But Cuddy could at least believe the oncologist had other friends and family, where as she knew House had no one.

Decisively she returned to the mauve recliner, scooting the cushioned chair closer to House. His eyes were closed, she noticed, as she slipped off her shoes and wiggled around to get comfortable. But there was no doubt in her mind that he was still awake… thinking about Wilson leaving.

Resting her head against the back of the chair, Cuddy wanted to tell House that it would be okay. Yet, she said nothing, because… he wouldn't believe it, and she couldn't exactly believe it either – not with Amber dead and House in the hospital and Wilson miserable.

Not knowing how to comfort the man lying next to her, she decided it was best to stay quiet; trite words wouldn't help anyone now, so reached out for his hand instead. Her cool fingers sliding over his knuckles, her grip was loose and gentle.

Only when she was on the cusp of sleep did she feel his hand move, his fingers testing the barriers of her palm. There was nothing urgent or angry in the motion, though Cuddy doubted he _could_ pull off either feat in his state; rather, in his tentative movements, it felt to her that he was testing to see that she was still there, with him.

When her thumb slowly glided across the back of his hand, he stilled, from reassurance or embarrassment or something else entirely; she didn't know. But either way, House would learn soon enough:

Cuddy wasn't going anywhere.

She couldn't.

_End (2/15)_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Thank you very much to DoctorLisaCuddy, dlb42694, Queen S of Randomness 016, and Charmed225 for the reviews. It means a lot. Also thanks to my beta, Olly, for betaing all twelve thousand words. This chapter is pretty long, hence the time it's taken for me to post another piece of the fic. But I hope it's worth it. So let me know what you think.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show, so don't sue._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Three: Memory and the Moment  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Originated by the French mathematician Rene Thom in the 1960s, catastrophe theory is a special branch of dynamical systems theory. It studies and classifies phenomena characterized by sudden shifts in behavior arising from small changes in circumstances." – The Exploratorium_

Her hands, still cool from the water she'd just washed them in, clasped his warm fingers. Running a thumb along the tops of his knuckles, she had hoped to comfort – _distract_ – him from the unfriendly reality around them. But instead, the difference in temperature only made House shiver and try to pull back.

And though part of her only saw this as further proof that she needed to work on her bedside manner, for the moment anyway, she was more relieved to see that he was improving. That he was _reacting_ to her stimulus, even if negatively, was a _good_ thing, and she refused to let herself see it as anything but that.

True, Cuddy couldn't deny that he was getting better at a slow pace, probably slower than he would have liked anyway. But seeing as how only two days had passed, she was pleased with the progress he _was_ making.

His mobility had increased, although he still couldn't get out of bed. And of course, his strength didn't last for very long, as an encounter with a bedpan twenty minutes ago had left him drifting off into sleep. Which was fine, Cuddy thought, for a multitude of reasons, the least of which being that he _needed_ the rest.

Maybe it was trivial to think it, but… in all honesty, she'd hoped he would fall asleep, if only so House was less likely to remember someone else wiping his ass.

No, she thought, as she looked down at his pale, worn body. It _absolutely_ was trivial, because he was _alive_, and that was what was important. Of course, _anything_ compared to House almost dying seemed petty. Including her desire to go home and peel off the clothes she'd been wearing for way too long.

She hadn't noticed it before, but standing at the bathroom sink washing her hands, Cuddy had seen her reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes, an unattractive combination of smeared mascara and exhaustion. And greasy curls sticking out at odd angles, her hair cried out for a shower. As did the rest of her body. Having contemplated in that moment about what everyone else – her _employees_ – were thinking about her appearance, she'd decided she had to go home.

Barely two days had passed, since she'd refused to leave his side, and _already_… Cuddy was going back on that internal promise.

And now, holding his hand, with guilt welling up inside her, Cuddy realized that it was so petty to worry about those things. Instead of going home, she should _want_ to stay with him, she told herself. She shouldn't care about what the others thought, because she'd already gone way beyond what was socially acceptable for a boss to do.

House had_ already_ tainted her – what with his constant ability to undermine her by getting into fights with patients and staff, breaking equipment, and getting away with the most dangerous tests a doctor could perform. So staying here, doing _this_, was hardly a smudge on her character. Much like a drawing done in charcoal, her moral lines and resolve had been already blurred and messily smeared.

And the rational part of her knew that staying would be no more a personal sacrifice than accepting anything else House did as of late would be.

But putting all of that aside, _really_, Cuddy couldn't help but crave a shower and a change of clothes. And since House was probably going to sleep anyway… she might as well slip away for a bit.

Of course, _telling _him that wasn't going to be an easy task; she realized that much. Her eyes on his tired form, she thought he looked so… _small_ and _helpless. _And part of her railed against leaving, arguing that she would be content to stay where she was.

The rest of her, on the other hand, could feel the blisters forming on the tops of her feet where her shoes met her skin. That side of her could feel the underwire of her bra uncomfortably digging into the flat plain of her stomach. And that piece of Cuddy could easily recall how disgusting she looked in the mirror, could believe that, at this point, she was dirtier than _House._

And it was that same part of her that pushed her to speak.

"House," she called to him gently. Her eyes looking him over, she could tell he was still awake, but he didn't respond. "House," she said again, a little louder. And this time, House opened his eyes slowly, his gaze lazily falling on her.

Held deep within the light blue irises was not, thankfully, resentment or anger. Those emotions would undoubtedly return to him at some point, and selfishly part of Cuddy desired to put off that moment in time for as long as she could.

However… the suffocating sadness infused in his eyes wasn't particularly welcome either. Of course, there was no stopping it, no keeping it out now. Nothing she could do or say would change that, would make him forget what had happened. And it killed her to know that she couldn't fix it, could not save him from the guilt and pain he was surely beginning to feel.

There were no drugs she could give him for that, no instant cure, though knowing House… he would probably try to drown his pain. No, she corrected; there was no _probably_ about it. He would _absolutely_ try to do just that. Having seen him do it before, she knew he would want stronger and riskier drugs for his problems.

And in the back of her mind, a voice began to whisper that _this_ is what she'd really feared all along for the last several years. Not an STD from a prostitute, not being fired or having to fire him for some trivial matter, not prison, but _this – _something so bad happening to him that he no longer had the desire to fight that dark part of his personality.

The infarction, Stacy leaving him, being shot… those things would all seem like walks in the park, she feared, compared to what he was about to go through. Unlike all those other times, House was now truly on the edge of abyss, the darkness ready to swallow him whole, and he was, more than likely, a willing partner in being sucked into that world.

It was a horrifying thought, and part of her wanted to think that it sounded alarmist, that he could and _would_ get better. But…she could not deny that, even though she'd seen this look in his eyes before, it had never been this strong or this pervasive. The melancholy, potent and incredibly real, had begun last night, quickly taking hold of him.

And she'd known since Wilson had left House that… this was going to be different than every other time House did something stupid or life threatening. Without a doubt, this would be so much worse. Because all those other instances had left House… _okay_ mentally; his body could have been ripped apart or technically dead for a few minutes, but _he_ was still there afterwards. Even when Stacy had left, despite being emotionally unstable (and maybe that was a generous term for how he'd acted), he had only become a marginally bigger bastard.

He'd been changed and hurt, but through all of that… he'd still had his _mind_, his ability to see patterns and reason in the most chaotic scenarios. That part of him, above all else, defined him for her – was what made all of the other antics and pain worth it.

And this time… that quintessential part of him might be gone.

The thought was one she didn't even _want_ to consider, but somehow the idea refused to retreat to the recesses of her mind. Forcing itself forward every now and then, the unfortunate possibility could not be denied; this time, Cuddy knew the damage to his brain might be permanent, irreversible. Knew that, instead of needing a short recovery period, he might _never_ talk again, _never_ solve another case, and the idea terrified her.

Which made her wonder just how horrifying it was for the man before her.

If this was permanent, how could House ever recover from that? How could he ever accept that loss and move on with his life?

He wouldn't – _couldn't_, and in that scenario… Cuddy knew that the best thing for him would be _hoping_ that he was so damaged, he would never know the difference.

But… it seemed unlikely that he would be so blissfully ignorant, because in his eyes now, she could already see the recognition of his own pain. She could tell that House _knew_ Wilson was gone and that this might be permanent, and once more she felt the guilt course through her veins.

Whether it was his light eyes glaring at her fingers or because he suspected she was leaving, she didn't know. But surging forward from her was a quick, honest, "I'm sorry." Letting go of his hand, Cuddy explained, "I know you're tired, and you can sleep in a moment. I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving."

As soon as the words escaped her, she regretted them. Though not uttered in a harsh way, she worried that House wouldn't understand or appreciate what she meant, and a glance at him proved she was right to think so. His eyes, the color of dark steel, blazed with betrayal, anger, sadness, and defeat. The array of emotions meandering and morphing his gaze, House's eyelids fluttered shut as quickly as he could make them. His tawny lashes blocking her out, Cuddy could no longer see what he was thinking, and she sighed loudly as a result.

She'd picked the wrong words, which meant that this was going to be needlessly difficult. And perilous if she didn't start getting better at this. Immediately, Cuddy explained, "Not _permanently,_ you idiot."

It wasn't said in a particularly kind manner, but she wasn't trying to be cruel either. In a way… she meant it affectionately, and more than anything, Cuddy doubted House would appreciate being soothed or talked down to. Really, if there was one thing he could understand – had _always_ understood – it was her irritation.

More gently, she continued, "In case you haven't noticed, I need a shower… clean clothes. I _smell_… like a musk ox that's rolled around in its own filth."

His eyes, brighter this time, popped open at the analogy. The anger and sadness he had felt only moments ago had disappeared, leaving a look of mischief. Of course he didn't speak, but Cuddy could only imagine what quip or inappropriate remark he was telling himself.

Folding her arms across her chest, she scoffed. "I'm anticipating any smart ass comments you'd make, House, and I'm telling you – you're not funny." His response was air rushing out of his nose in something approaching a short laugh.

But the lightness easing his features did not last, the weight of what had happened visibly settling in once more. And whether it was because of that or simply the weakness of his own body, _once again_ she didn't know.

It irritated her – how much she was unsure of in this situation. She was his friend, but she felt awkward trying to comfort him, felt like nothing she said was good enough. And Cuddy was also his doctor. But… brain injuries were _not_ her specialty, and as good a physician as she was, this was completely out of her league. Which _wounded_, because, while she could consult with neurology and rely on them, it hurt knowing she couldn't medically do much for House.

But if he seemed to mind, he didn't let it show. Because only seconds later, he closed his eyes.

Knowing it wouldn't be long before he fell asleep, Cuddy squeezed his hand once more and told him softly, "I'll be back. I promise." Staying with him a few minutes longer, she waited for slumber to take over before leaving him.

The door to the ICU slid shut behind her, and she turned to look at House, her guilt staying with her long after she'd walked away. And so, though she still wanted to go home, Cuddy made the decision to find someone else to stay with him.

Of course, finding someone who _would_ do that was easier said than done.

After all, most of the hospital despised him and had expressed to her on numerous occasions that he should be fired. The majority of her employees would either flat out refuse to do it or do it unwillingly, and frankly, she didn't know if she trusted someone who didn't want to be there to be of any help.

Walking and searching down the hallway, Cuddy contemplated asking House's old team. Aside from Wilson and herself, they were the people who had spent the most time with him in the past couple years; House would probably be more willing to trust them.

But in her heart, she knew that Foreman would flat out say no, would argue that babysitting wasn't in his job description. Actually, she corrected herself after thinking about it some more, that wouldn't happen. Foreman wouldn't get around to telling her any of those things; he'd be too busy hysterically laughing at the suggestion.

Either way, though, he wasn't a viable option.

On the other hand, she _might_ be able to get Chase to do it. But then… a very large part of her no longer trusted him, and she worried what might happen if he were alone with House. The thought, Cuddy supposed, was ridiculous on some level; he wasn't a bad doctor – he was her Head of Surgery, after all. That didn't mean, however, that she'd forgotten what had happened only two days ago.

And though it was unfair to think it, the thought crossed her mind anyway; echoing inside of her, a voice whispered, _look at what he's already done. House doesn't need any more pain._

Which left her with Cameron, who was probably the best person of the bunch but who had also just finished a double shift in the ER. Exhausted and overworked, she probably wouldn't want to watch House, Cuddy realized.

So really… that just left the current team.

Walking as quickly as she could to House's office, she decided Thirteen would be a good choice, Taub a better one. Kutner, on the other hand, would be completely out of the question. Because… while she could believe he was a competent doctor, Cuddy had wanted Cole to select him for firing for a reason.

As horrible as it might have been to reduce someone to their mistakes, she could not, as hospital administrator, see him as anything but "The Man Who Had Set A Patient On Fire."

That mental picture turning about in her mind, Cuddy reiterated to herself purposefully: _anyone_ but Kutner.

But, entering House's office, she soon realized that… she had no other choice. Thirteen and Taub nowhere to be seen, Kutner sat alone in House's chair with a Game Boy in his hands and a bowl of soggy Cocoa Krispies next to him. His attention solely on the game before him, he didn't notice Cuddy.

His long fingers jabbed the buttons on the small device, and every so often, he would mutter at the screen, "No, no, _left_, you asshole – yeah, _sweet!_"

Stalking over to him, as calmly as she could, Cuddy interrupted, "Where are Taub and Thirteen?"

She blinked at him, irritated, when he didn't look up. His focus still on his game, he responded slowly, "Don't know… didn't come in… that's kind of odd actually." Looking at him now, Cuddy could see his brow furrow a little bit at the thought. But just as quickly as it came, it went, and he focused again on his game.

And it hit her then just how much Kutner reminded her of House in some ways. Of course the man before her was nicer – how could he not be? And no, Kutner would never be as brilliant as House, would never be as capable as him either. Because even though Cuddy didn't really know the younger man all that well, she _did_ know House. Knew him from years of watching him work and defending his methods, and from that, she'd understood – he _was_ a genius.

Sometimes, it killed her to admit that fact to herself. But lately… Cuddy was increasingly aware of how_ smart_ House really was. And though she would never _ever_ admit it to _him_, she couldn't help but think he was… smarter than she was.

As it was, she thought, getting back to her original point, he was obviously more intelligent than Kutner.

But what the two did seem to share in common was an irrepressible childishness.

It wasn't _immaturity_, per se, though House definitely had his fair share of that as well. Rather, the two men had the same desire to understand, to seek out explanations for everything from the simple to the complex.

Truthfully they reminded her of some of the younger children in the cancer ward, who she didn't visit often, but who she thought about regularly. With large, bright eyes, they would ask about anything and everything imaginable – what the machines in their rooms were for, what was Dr. Wilson's real name, what was _her _real name, why did her hair grow like that, and just about anything else they could ask.

And though the questions were different and their interests in the much more bizarre, Kutner and House were exactly like that.

Feeling the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair, Cuddy balled her hands into fists and leaned against House's desk. "I'll deal with them later," she said with a shake of her head. "In the meantime, I have a job for you."

Kutner carefully paused his game and finally looked her in the eye. "A case?"

"No. I'm going home to change and shower, pick up a few things. But given House's current state – and the fact that he's pissed off every single nurse in this hospital… I need someone to sit with him."

"I can do it," he told her with a shrug.

She watched as he stood up and pocketed the Game Boy. "Good" was her reply. And though that was going to be her final word on the matter, once again, Kutner's incidents with the defibrillator came to mind. The possibility of House catching fire or _another_ one of her employees ending up as a patient – or the _hospital_ burning to the ground – was too frightening and too likely to keep quiet. Her hand reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of his white coat, Cuddy said quickly, "I know that you're a very talented doctor. House wouldn't have hired you otherwise –"

"Thanks," he interrupted with a smile on his face.

"_But_ – and I'm sorry if this offends you, but since I'm your _boss_, I expect you to do it anyway," she said, prefacing what she was about to tell him. When she was sure he'd followed along in the conversation, Cuddy continued, slower. "If… for some reason, there is a problem with House's heart… and he needs the paddles…"

She swallowed hard at the thought. Just the idea alone made her feel queasy, made her own heart feel as though it were being strangled.

But knowing that Kutner was looking at her closely, Cuddy forced herself to tamp down on her emotions and finish her thought. "Get someone else to do it, all right?"

The smile that had been on his face disappeared, a frown replacing it. But he nodded his head anyway before leaving her alone in House's office.

And standing by the desk all by herself then, she couldn't help but feel like the people who discovered ghost towns must have felt. Of course, the analogy wasn't perfect; Cuddy was aware of that much. Because she'd spent quite a bit of time in this very office – usually _yelling_ at House.

But still…

Without anyone else in the room, without the urgent need to smack House, Cuddy thought she was looking at the space with completely fresh eyes. Which wasn't exactly true either, since she'd been in the office by herself before too. But… and she didn't really know what it was – _something_ had changed.

Something within her had changed. Her eyes roaming around the room, she tried to pick up every little detail that had made this space uniquely House's. Each dog-eared medical journal, the lupus textbook with a hole cut in it for his Vicodin, the glass fish on his desk – she looked at all of it, her gaze stayed on each object just for a few seconds.

It made no sense to waste her time like this, especially when there was no real reason for it. But Cuddy couldn't stop herself, couldn't find it within her to stop at the moment. Because some part of her _needed_ to see every part of him in this room, absorb it into herself so that those things about House couldn't – _wouldn't_ – be forgotten.

His walking, breathing memory, she would tell him everything he needed to know – if it came to that. Even the things she didn't like (the porn on his computer) and the quirks she didn't quite understand (the ball of rubber bands on his desk) would be imprinted into her memory, onto her soul. If it were out of duty or something else, Cuddy didn't know. Whatever the reason, it was important, and she couldn't shake the immediate, insatiable, and insane need to capture it all before it was gone forever.

And moments later, when she thought her task was complete, Cuddy lingered in the space. Perhaps too afraid of what would change when she left, she stood still in the silent room.

Her eyes casting downward in some sort of prayer, she caught sight of his keys.

And an idea hit her.

It was unlikely House would be able to leave his room for the next several days. He'd be too weak for it. But… that didn't mean he had to be devoid of all comfort, of all the things that reminded him of home. And if she were going to keep her vigil going, it certainly didn't mean she had to be without a plan.

Her mind on overdrive, Cuddy scooped up his keys and finally left the eerily quiet office.

Perhaps providing the perfect counterpoint, her drive home was anything but silent. One hand on the wheel, the other constantly on her cell phone, she didn't want to think about the fate being tempted by working and driving at the same time.

But the fact of the matter was the hospital didn't stop simply because she wanted it to. Lawyers still needed answers on settlements; doctors still needed her approval, and donations still needed to be fostered and collected. Office space had to be set up for meetings and presentations; classrooms needed to be reserved for particular lectures, and _none_ of it stopped on account of House being hurt. Things couldn't work like that, because, if they did, the hospital would never be open, and _she_ couldn't work like that, because…

As much as House was a liability to her success, they weren't going to fire her as long as she kept doing her job better than anyone else could. And that meant no sick days, only a handful of vacation days, and absolutely _no_ personal life for her, it seemed, because intentionally or not, House was making her job harder and harder to keep.

His disregard for the rules, inability to make the hospital money, and general disrespect towards everyone were _all_ bones of contention with her bosses. But overall, it wasn't _his_ actions that bothered them. For all of their dislike for House, their sticking point was her _own_ decisions that they hated the most.

Because she was the boss, the one who _should_ have put an end to the madness. And though she was able to defend her choices on most occasions, part of Cuddy feared, maybe even realized, that it _would_ get her fired eventually.

At some point… the board would look at her work and, if it weren't so completely impressive, dismiss it. They would see it as _less than_ all the problems House created. And they wouldn't view her choices as legitimate ones anymore, because they would no longer see any of her reasoning.

Chances were, her bosses would look past all the lives saved and right decisions made, and they would see _her_. A reasonably attractive woman who was no longer afraid to show it, and…

They would write her off as just another weak woman incapable of being detached.

Then they would fire her.

Maybe not this year, but at some point… Cuddy believed it would come to that. Which meant everything she did had to count, had to be less of a reason to fire her. And _that_ meant playing her own game of Russian roulette in rush hour traffic.

Sighing to herself in resignation, Cuddy was about to call Thirteen when her cell phone began to ring. The shrill noise loud and unexpected, she jumped in her seat. The unexpected shift in her body included her right foot, which accidentally pressed downward on the acceleration.

Cuddy dropped her phone on the seat next to her, as the car hurdled forward with a burst of energy. An "Oh God" echoing in her mind, she deftly maneuvered her car into a different lane to avoid a collision with the SUV in front of her.

Her rushed breathing offsetting the sound of her still ringing phone, Cuddy made sure she gripped the wheel tightly with one hand before grabbing her cell once more. "This is Dr. Cuddy," she said, her voice tight and high-pitched with emotion and not a hint of the professionalism she wanted to convey.

"It's Wilson."

He sounded completely different than she had only seconds ago – sounded different even compared to how he normally did. While her own words had been rushed out, his seemed to meander along the phone line. The simple sentence uttered so lethargically that the two words took on such a heavy weight, it sounded as though he'd given away the secrets to the world.

And somehow through it all, his voice had been filled _and_ absent of emotion, Cuddy thought. Sad, angry, and empty all at the same time, he no longer had that… gentleness and kindness about him.

Really, Wilson just sounded exhausted.

Even to his own ears, he could hear how tired he sounded. Mumbled simply and slowly, the words gave away a truth he could feel in his bones.

Without _her_, he couldn't do it.

He needed Amber.

Though it had begun in pattern and need, that relationship had quickly headed into unfamiliar territory. And instead of breaking him, instead of being more of the _same_, it had unexpectedly healed him; she'd given him back the parts he'd thought were gone forever, thanks to three divorces and handfuls of dead patients.

She had made him feel whole once more.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he drained the rest of his scotch. Maybe he'd had too much to drink, but it sounded so _odd_ to put it in those terms, felt so… cheap in a way – like nothing more than a perverted sentiment found only in romantic movies. But the fact was Amber's strength and drive had become his glue. Never demanding unconditional selflessness, she had been the first – the _only_ – to love him as he was and not for what he could give her.

Amber had let him be… himself, as novel as that idea had been to him. She'd_ loved_ and _respected_ him, despite his most obvious flaw – his screwed up friendship with House. And because of that, Amber had made him happier and more content than he'd ever thought imaginable and _much_ more so than he deserved.

Thanks to her, the last several months seemed to have existed in an alternate universe – one where he wasn't expected or even _asked_ to sacrifice everything for _her_ happiness. For all of those days, Wilson had had a wonderful job that he was good at, his friendship with House, and a woman he loved by his side.

It hadn't felt like it at the time, but the truth was…

He'd had everything.

And the best part of it had been that he'd been _allowed_ to have it all; he hadn't _had_ to choose between any of it. Even when House had tried to force a confrontation, for those couple months, Wilson hadn't chosen like he had with all of his wives before.

Amber had never really asked him to, so there'd been no need.

But now that time was undoubtedly over, had escaped him, abandoned him. And in the end, he hadn't made a choice, but someone or something had. House, the accident, God – _something_ had made the decision for him.

And there was no going back now, no reclaiming that part of his life.

Because she was _gone_.

And for the first time in months, Wilson was left without anyone to protect him, without anyone to guide, love, and validate him.

He poured himself another scotch at the thought but did not drink it. The way things were now, part of him was aware that it should have felt like… a return to normal.

But it didn't.

Because this might have resembled his life before Amber, but it was _completely_ different. Before, he had been neither happy nor content. Simply resigned to the way things were, Wilson had accepted House and his job as the two parts of his life that mattered, that would always be there.

And now without Amber, he still had those things on the surface, but… everything had changed.

His job was still there. His patients still needed him. But Wilson didn't know if that was what he wanted to spend his time doing anymore. Death was too near to him now, and he could no longer pretend that it didn't affect him. Couldn't tell others anymore that it was preferable to go quickly, because, in his heart, he had wanted – _still wanted_ – those last few hours with Amber to stretch on forever.

Each second that had passed he'd wanted to imprint in his memory forever. Keeping every single detail – the way her skin and breath felt against his arms, lips, and cheeks – in his mind, Wilson was desperate to hold it all in. Afraid to exhale too deeply lest it all slip away, he was terrified that something would be forgotten.

And with that fear in the back of his mind, he couldn't tell the families of his patients the things they would want to hear.

They would look to him with sad but hopeful eyes for him to say something… _inspirational_, something good.

Like their loved one was in a "better place."

Maybe that was true, Wilson thought with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink. Maybe… Amber was somewhere good. Some place where there was no pain or fear, perhaps she _was_ happy now – free from her almost desperate desire to be _perfect_ and to get _ahead_.

But what did that mean for _him_? That she was happy _without_ him? That she'd never needed him the way he needed her?

This was, in so many ways, his biggest fear. That she might not need him…

He couldn't finish the thought.

And lost in his own pain, Wilson wasn't sure he could sit across from other grieving families and comfort them.

So too could he no longer stand beside House and play the role of supportive, ever-suffering friend. _That_ job had been one to carry him through all of his divorces, had kept him going for years. But now…

Wilson couldn't do it anymore.

He couldn't hold onto the hope that House could change.

For _years_, Wilson had _clung_ to the idea that, at some point, House would realize the problems in his life and work to fix them. Almost as long as they'd been friends, Wilson had told himself that the other man would push and push, but he would _never_ break their friendship.

Until this week, Wilson had continued – against all the evidence that suggested otherwise – to believe House would pull back.

But now… Wilson was forced to see it for the lie it was and knew he'd never be able to lull himself into that delusion again.

The one thing that had kept him hopeful for years was now the precise cause of his pain.

And that friendship, that pattern, that way of life was _over_ – as dead as _she_ was.

Having forgotten the phone he was holding up to his ear, Wilson nearly jumped when the voice on the other end of the line spoke up. Cuddy spoke quietly, concern obvious in her words when she asked, "Wilson? Are you there?"

"Yeah."

There was a beat, another pause in the conversation that allowed the silence around him to swallow him whole once more. Each second slowly ticking by, he couldn't help but think that it had been foolish to try and escape it.

Not that he particularly enjoyed noise, of course. But the forced stillness of the apartment only served to remind him: the woman he loved was dead.

"Where are you?" Cuddy asked with concern.

The immediate answer that popped into his mind was _Hell_.

There was no other appropriate label for where he was. Where else was it possible for every little decision to create such compound fractures?

This _was_ the Hell that people spoke of, his own mind and memory an unfriendly devil. Amber's death pushing him into this unkind territory, he had quickly realized that there was no place safe for him. Not here at least, because each and every corner of the apartment reminded him of her.

A note hurriedly written on the back of an envelope had been the beginning. And from that point on, Wilson had realized that there were mementos all over the house; which shouldn't have been so surprising – it was _her_ apartment when it came down to it. The furniture was hers, the color scheme, and every time he looked at it, he was reminded of things she liked.

Except for the bed.

The pillow-top mattress, the one _he'd_ picked out, was the only thing in the entire apartment (aside from his clothes and some pots and pans) that she hadn't purchased herself.

But the meaning of that too had been… tied up in her, had become all about her for him.

Because it was the proof that both Cuddy and House had been _wrong._

Amber hadn't wanted to be with him for what Wilson could do for her. She'd wanted to be with him for who he was, and she'd wanted him to do something for _himself._

And that fact made even the bed… unsafe.

Each and every piece of the apartment had meaning, which made his loss all the more obvious and potent. And part of him wanted nothing more than to _rid_ himself of the things that made his heart ache and his eyesight continually blurry with tears.

But there was another part of Wilson that… just like in the hospital was desperate to keep every little bit of her near. Needing to keep the dirty sheets on the bed so he could smell her scent, keep her toothbrush in the bathroom – needing to keep everything where it was, Wilson was terrified of letting any of it go.

And that war within him made _every_ little decision difficult, almost impossible to make. Because the question going through his mind was heady and hard to answer: did he do things the way Amber liked them in her memory or… did he accept that she was gone and "return to normal"?

The question gave him pause then, as he sat down on Amber's couch and scrubbed over his face with one his hands.

"Wilson?" Cuddy asked once more.

Shaking his head, he responded "Sorry. I'm here."

Tentatively she asked him, "Are you okay?" And then perhaps realizing just how _obvious_ the answer to that question was, she hurriedly continued, 'I'm sorry – things aren't okay, I know that… You called me?"

Normally, he would have tried to reassure her that she hadn't upset him (anymore than he already was, anyway).

Well, _normally_, Wilson liked seeing her be relaxed. But since Amber had died, he… really didn't care about soothing Cuddy. And he didn't know if that made him a _bad_ friend or just a normal one – and really, either way, he didn't care. "Yeah," he told her. "Look, I know this is short notice, and the Oncology Benefit is coming up, but I –"

"Want some time off?" she finished sympathetically.

His throat suddenly feeling tight, Wilson forced out a "Yes."

"Wilson," Cuddy said with what he thought was a humorless laugh in the word. "Honestly, I… pretty much expected you to take it. It's not a problem. I can get someone to fill in for you. Easily."

"Good," he said, nodding his head though she obviously couldn't see it. And then, as he looked around the room and saw all of Amber's things staring back at him, Wilson felt the need to tell Cuddy, "I don't know what to do with her stuff."

"What?"

There was an unwanted, soft sob in his throat when he said, "Amber's… things. I don't know – do I get rid of it?"

She nearly whispered his name in response. The word breathy and soft, it was obvious she felt sorry for him. "I don't know," she told him honestly. "But… maybe… you should wait to decide."

Tiredly Wilson asked, "Why?"

He could hear Cuddy's sigh through the earpiece. "You can always sell her things later. But you do that now and regret it – there's no going back."

But, he thought to himself, there was already no going back. Because no matter what he did, Amber would still be gone. And he could keep her things, sell them, or _burn_ them, and the only person who would ever _truly_ care was himself.

Wilson had _no one_ to answer to in this. There was no boss here, no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do with her things. He could be Amber's walking mausoleum or move on – and nobody would care.

It was such a strange and bitter freedom to have, he thought with a sniffle.

But all he said to Cuddy was, "Yeah, thanks," before quickly hanging up the phone.

Dropping it on the couch, Wilson glanced around the apartment. His dark eyes looking at every inch of the space, he couldn't help but think that nobody could tell from this that she was gone.

Her laptop was still sitting out. A mint-colored mug filled with cold Earl Grey tea sat by the edge of the kitchen sink. The rumpled skirt he'd broken the zipper off of while trying to get into her pants was still on top of the dirty laundry – where _she'd_ left it.

Nobody could have guessed, he thought bitterly.

Tears in his eyes, Wilson leaned back further against the couch. His arms wrapping around himself, he prayed for this to be nothing more than a nightmare. Wanting this to be nothing more than a dream, he hoped to wake up, knowing Amber was_ okay_.

And then he wouldn't be alone, surrounded by all of her things.

Never able to touch her again.

It was that image of Wilson that stayed in Cuddy's mind for the next hour and a half. Despite knowing that it would do no good, she couldn't stop herself from thinking how lonely and sad he must be. So much so that as she'd taken her shower, Cuddy had contemplated stopping by Wilson's on the way back to the hospital.

But quickly – in the amount of time it had taken her to wash her hair anyway – she'd abandoned the idea.

Honestly, she'd thought, what good would seeing him do? Would it make him feel better in any way? Would it take the edge off of Amber's passing?

The answer in her head had been a resounding "no."

Of course, Wilson might have appreciated the gesture, she'd conceded. But it wouldn't do enough good – certainly not the amount to reneg on her promise to House, at least.

And now standing inside the curmudgeon's apartment all by herself, Cuddy felt more confident that she'd made the right choice.

Having spent a good portion of the night on his chaise a few days ago, she thought the space should have felt familiar to her. But the truth was House's home was about as inviting as he was.

The leather on the sofa was well worn; there were books all over with marked and folded pages, and the bed was still unmade from the last night he'd spent in the room. Everything in the place had been hand-chosen by House for its unassuming appearance. And it was all very beautiful, she supposed, but… there had always been something cold and lonely about the apartment that she didn't like.

Surrounded by it once more, Cuddy thought again: she was making the right decision by not going to Wilson's.

Not that the oncologist couldn't use a friend, she told herself, as she made her way to House's bathroom. He obviously _could_ use someone but… not as much as House.

Maybe that wasn't the right way to put it, she thought. Because that made it sound like some sort of messed up competition – who was the more miserable person? – and it wasn't like that.

It was just… no matter what she did, no matter what she said, Wilson would be in pain. She could keep him company, but she couldn't be the person he _wanted_; she couldn't make him forget about Amber. And in the end, he would never truly be able to appreciate what she was doing for him.

House, on the other hand… He needed medical care, which she could easily give him; he needed someone who would bring him things from home and who was willing to put up with his insanity. Which, by all accounts, she had done – or _was_ doing. And she knew he might never _admit_ his appreciation for it.

But that didn't mean it didn't – or wouldn't – exist.

Determined more than ever to do the right thing, Cuddy grabbed the toothbrush and seldom-used razor and hairbrush from the bathroom. As she stuffed the items into a bag she'd brought from home, she understood that she could have easily bought these things at the hospital. Truth be told, that probably would have been simpler, but then… part of her knew that House was… _odd_ about things like this.

Simply put, he hated change. And maybe that was another reason to choose him over Wilson; the latter would… eventually, she hoped, be able to deal with his pain. But House she didn't have as much hope for. He would fight change every step of the way, she thought, fight it relentlessly and angrily, and that meant there was a good chance he would reject something as small as a new toothbrush. And normally, Cuddy wouldn't care all that much, but… given his current state, she didn't want to give him any more reasons to be upset.

Moving onto the bedroom, she looked for the pajamas he'd worn a few days ago. Her bright eyes scouring the naturally lit room, she looked hard for the grayish-blue clothes. Because she feared how House would react to change, she wanted to take him the exact same ones he'd picked out for himself. Figuring he was the kind of person to buy clothes based on the type of injury he was sporting, she searched the room insistently for several minutes.

It wasn't an easy task, Cuddy quickly realized. Given the way he had hurriedly wanted to leave days ago, he could have (and probably had) thrown the clothes anywhere. Which might not have been a problem, except there were several pieces of clothing and other assorted odds and ends everywhere.

And that meant Cuddy had to sort through a couple piles of clothes before finding anything that even remotely looked like what he'd worn the other day. Her hands quickly rummaging through each item, she tried not to think about how mad House would undoubtedly be at the invasion of privacy.

Then again, she thought as she tossed aside a shirt that smelled faintly of vomit, she didn't care all that much. For one, he had broken into her office _and_ her house, and it was about time that she got revenge for the raid on her underwear drawer.

But childish reasons aside, she believed that, with the way things were shaping up, there was _no way_ he was going to take any of this well. Every choice she was making had the possible result of House being angry; every tiny aspect of his treatment and recovery might set him off, and the fact that he had trauma to his brain made that even _more_ likely.

So really… she might as well buy him a pink tutu and matching cane, because there was just no avoiding a disaster.

And just as Cuddy began to entertain the idea of House in ballet slippers, she found what she was looking for. The thin pajama pants had been thrown carelessly onto the floor and somehow had made their way under the bed. His t-shirt, the worn material soft and almost fuzzy to the touch, had been harder to find. But eventually, she'd discovered it tangled up in the sheets by House's pillow.

After giving both items a tentative and obligatory sniff, she decided they were clean enough for him to wear. And so, unceremoniously, Cuddy folded them and placed them in the duffle bag.

What she'd set out to find now in her possession, she realized that she could leave. Especially since House was going to act like a four year old who'd missed his nap, it seemed foolish to keep trying to make him happy.

And yet knowing that wasn't enough to force her out the door right away.

Maybe it was the satisfaction of knowing she could help House in a way she couldn't help Wilson. Or perhaps she once again felt the need to absorb every aspect of the apartment before leaving. Whatever the reason, Cuddy wasn't ready to return to the hospital just yet.

She grabbed a few more clothes – a pair of jeans, a clean shirt, underwear (which had better be clean or she'd have to burn her hands off). Putting them in her bag, she contemplated taking a pair of shoes before remembering he had a pair at the hospital.

Snatching a pair of socks from one of his drawers, Cuddy mentally went over what she wanted to take back to make sure she had everything. And just when she thought she'd grabbed everything House could possibly want, she glanced at the nightstand by his bed.

Sitting haphazardly on top of the dark wood were several books, and it hit her then that maybe he would want something to do in the hospital. Actually, contemplating it some more, she was absolutely sure she should take him something. Because once he started getting better, he would have more time to think about what had happened. And the more occupied she could keep him, the less chance there would be of him realizing how… horrible this situation with Wilson really was.

He'd have cable in his room once they moved him out of the ICU. Not that he'd ever pay for the extra channels _himself_. But Cuddy could only assume that, once he was feeling better, he would badger her into footing the bill.

Of course House would also have his Game Boy, which she suspected was squirreled away somewhere in his office. And really, that should have been enough, but just in case he wanted something else, something _quieter_ anyway, Cuddy began to leaf through the considerable pile of books by his bedside.

Quickly reading each title, she almost immediately decided against bringing him anything medicine-related. While he might have found that the most interesting, she worried that it wouldn't be able to distract him from what had happened.

She feared that he would start to read it, glance over some horribly experimental treatment, and begin to wonder if he could have saved Amber's life. Or, worse still, he would read about some insanely unlikely disease, only to have his bruised brain begin to see things that hadn't happened; overlapping the symptoms of the illness with someone else on the bus, House could easily, she feared, believe that there was someone else left to save.

And even now, after everything that had happened, Cuddy wasn't sure she'd be able to stop him. Not only because he would _never_ stop until he'd found the person on the bus in his mind, but also… it had become _instinct_ to believe him.

If he said there was someone else who needed help… she wasn't sure she could say no.

Which was just as terrifying as it was shameful; more than anything, House needed someone who could say no to him. He _desperately_ needed someone who would _stop_ him from hurting himself and anyone else. Basically, someone had to be around to put an end to his crazy schemes, and she knew – that was _her_ job.

And… there was a good chance that she wouldn't be able to do it – at least not if she continued to behave the way she had for so many months.

An incredibly grim future staring back at her, Cuddy could only wonder where things had gone so wrong. At what point had matters become so dismal and so disastrous?

The question echoing in her head, she didn't like any of the answers she thought of. The bus accident was the most immediate answer, the most obvious reason. But… somehow that didn't seem like the beginning of all their problems. That, for better or worse, had just been one piece of the puzzle, one domino piece tipping over in slow motion.

And really, that's what _all_ of their bad choices seemed like. Wilson's, House's, hers – the mistakes they'd made never felt _that_ big at the time. But here she was, feeling as though every decision she could make would end in failure. Feeling as though every action or inaction might result in House being hurt _more_, Cuddy felt the strong urge to just _give up_.

Because, honestly, what was the point in working _this_ hard for so little in return?

And yet as soon as she'd asked herself the question, she could feel her body rebelling against it.

That stubborn part of her, the one that refused to accept anything less than success, surged forth suddenly.

Powerfully.

It had been so long since she'd felt this fired up that the well of emotion forced her to sit on House's bed. A deep feeling solidifying and hardening in the back of her throat, determination from God only knows where refused to accept defeat.

It was the same part of her that pushed her through med school and Vogler and years of petty but blatant sexism. That stubborn part of her forced itself into her mind; taking control of her, it would _not_ allow for failure.

It would _never_ let House have his way at the risk of his own safety. Which he would probably be appalled at, she thought. But for the first time in what felt like a very long time, Cuddy didn't care. She told herself that he could hate her all he wanted, because at least now…

She wouldn't be helping him kill himself.

And that thought in mind, purposefully, Cuddy grabbed a few books off of the nightstand and jammed them into her bag.

Only when she was driving back to the hospital did her resolve seem to falter. As though it were intrinsically tied to House, the closer she got to him, the more unsure she became.

A panic beginning to claw at the pit of her stomach, she began to tell herself that it would be _okay_. The words hollow to her own ears, Cuddy tried to console herself with the belief that… doing _this_ – _trying_ to help – was better than admitting she was powerless to fix this disaster.

And maybe, she told herself, if she kept trying to make things better…

Eventually it would work.

It had to.

Back at the hospital, House drifted in and out of consciousness. Meandering between memory and the moment, he was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. His eyes were almost constantly closed, but it didn't matter; he could tell someone was with him. He could feel it, could feel the way it made his skin tingle, even if he didn't have the energy to look.

Dreams weaving in and out, much like the way his grandmother's fingers had crocheted an intricate blanket from wool yarn, his reality was a delicate fabric; the intruder shifting and reshaping, there was no discernable pattern to any of it. Wilson, Amber, Cuddy, his mother, and Stacy, the stranger never stayed the same in his mind, and House could no longer tell what was really happening and what he was imagining.

Fiction and reality converged into one. A constant buzz in his ear, an incessant chatter around him – the person in his room or in his head _never_ left, _never_ stilled. And a pair of eyes constantly on him, House could not rest.

Sleep came and went and welcomed him again with open arms. But it was a meaningless, roundabout exercise.

He dreamed of Steve McQueen running on his little wheel and knew this was like that. His mind on one giant steel endless loop, House was stuck in this world of exhaustion and ignorance, white noise and haze. Unable to concentrate long enough to see who was with him, never feeling more capable than the moment before, he slept with no pleasure.

Slumber grasping him once more, he dreamed of Cuddy talking to him. Her hands were cold, sending a shiver through him, the vibrations trailing along every inch of skin. So life like in its intensity, House thought it felt real – or had that actually happened at some point? He couldn't decide, and he fell asleep once more, vaguely thinking at the time that he didn't even realize he'd been awake.

He dreamed of his childhood in sepia, a bright amber bleeding all over the faded memories. Standing outside one of his old homes, House was both himself as he was now and as he was as a younger boy. And in a world far away from the hospital, the two, somehow connected as one, could only feel the shame welling up inside.

His current self getting off of the tipped over bus once more and looking up into the night sky, his younger self seemed to be seeing the exact same stars.

Glancing upwards, he limped out of the bar now, time jumping of its own volition; his eyes locked on the North Star, he tried to avoid his mother's sympathetic look, as he walked in from spending a night outside then. Here, now, then, and back he could feel his guilt and his self-loathing needling his emotions.

For all his talk, throughout his life, it was all his fault – Amber's death and whatever had garnered this punishment from his father at the time.

It was his fault and nobody else's.

Both Houses sitting at his mother's kitchen table, he watched quietly as she made him a cup of warm milk. His body cold and bones tired, then and now, he knew somehow that this was his mind's way of tormenting him. Because while others dreamed of the abuse and pain itself, he usually did not.

He dreamed of the aftermath or what happened to warrant the punishment – a form of punishment in and of itself. He dreamed, not of hating his father, but wanting desperately to please him, despite never knowing _how_. He dreamed of sitting at his mother's kitchen table and being consoled when he didn't think he deserved it.

Because it was always when she set the hot mug in front of him that he realized… all of the abuse made sense. It was wrong and should have never happened, yes, _but_ in the end… he'd deserved it.

His father knew it, just as House did, knew that, when the older man was around, things were better. _House_ was better.

And knowing that the abuse he'd suffered had _worked_ was worse than any punishment his father could have ever meted out. And believing things with Wilson could have been avoided if the elder House had been _crueler_ was unbearable, even in the soft cushion of sleep.

Waking up abruptly, he shivered uncontrollably. As he wished for more blankets and a warm drink, white hot agitation lanced through his haze. From places unknown, it wrenched him out of his lull, refused to let him fall back into a peaceful slumber.

He needed _out_.

Aware of the way the paper-thin blankets twisted awkwardly around his body, House tried to push them off. His fingers tried to push the sheets, but he was too _weak_ to escape. But his uncooperative mind was too aware of the fact that there was no running from what chased him.

The thought of his father being the one he'd needed to stop this whole thing was one too powerful to ignore.

His own self-loathing chaining him to the bed, House couldn't stop any of it. Only the hot tears that threatened to streak his cheeks seemed compelled to stop by his own will. And even that only happened, because he remembered once again that he was not alone.

Opening his eyes with effort, he could _finally_ see who the stranger in the room was. Although his visions seemed blurry around the edges, it was impossible to miss Kutner sitting right by the bed.

Playing _his_ Game Boy, House realized slowly.

His irritation ratcheting up another notch, House tried to speak up. But his mouth filled with cotton, the words wouldn't form, and there was no way to stop Kutner.

The sound of the Game Boy became more and more intrusive. As each second passed, he couldn't help but fixate on the electronic music, sprightly, high-pitched, and completely inappropriate for the situation. Every shrill note made him wince, made his ears ring painfully.

Once more, he opened his mouth to speak, but again, the words became jumbled and lost on his tongue.

Panic clawing inside of him, House needed a way to make it stop, forcing him to do the first thing he could think of. Pushing his left leg through the sheets as hard as he could, he kicked Kutner.

The Game Boy flew out of the other man's hands and clattered on the ground. The sound was loud and painful but ultimately worth it. Because House couldn't see it, but the way the plastic and metal hit the hard surface sounded like it had broken. And immediately the overbearing music stopped playing, putting a smile on House's exhausted face. He breathed in and out deeply, worn by the subtle movement.

"Hey, man!" Kutner said loudly, making House wince. "What the hell was that?"

"_Dr. Kutner_," Cuddy admonished as the ICU doors slid open. Her voice wasn't quite as loud as Kutner's had been, but the _tone_ was shriller, and House closed his eyes, trying to will everyone and everything to _shut up._

Of course it didn't work. "What are you _doing_?" she asked, moving close to House's side. Not giving Kutner a chance to speak up, she continued talking. "Do you treat all your patients like this?" And though House closed his eyes, he couldn't help but think that her eyes had slid to him when she added irritably, "Well, I suppose that would be _why_ House would like you."

Her hands were shaking, he thought, as she roughly went to tuck his leg back under the covers. The thin bed shifting from her movement, he couldn't sleep now if he wanted to. And given the way she was frantically trying to make things perfect again, House could tell:

Cuddy's head was about to explode.

And it was gonna get all over him, he thought with a sigh.

But then, that too, just like everything else was his fault. If he hadn't kicked Kutner, if he'd been more patient, then… none of this would be happening.

It was his fault, and Kutner apparently agreed. Speaking up, the other man defended, "I was just sitting here, and _he_ kicked me."

Cuddy's hands stopped, and House could feel her taking a seat on a small part of the bed not currently occupied by him. "Oh," she said gently. Confusion lacing her tones, she asked Kutner, "Why would he –he's been asleep for practically two days, you must be mistaken -"

"Right," Kutner responded sarcastically. "I hallucinated him kicking me."

Oddly enough, the way he was speaking to Cuddy… well, it was the first time House had ever _really_ felt that hiring Kutner had been the right thing to do; here the younger man was – giving Cuddy crap. And it was not only amusing, but she'd never get mad at an injured cripple for what was being said, even if he was Kutner's boss.

Of course, his enjoyment for the situation didn't last long, as their voices got louder. "You expect me to believe that he –"

"_Yeah_, I do," Kutner said in a loud, brave voice that sounded forced. In a voice that made House feel as though his head were going to collapse in on itself.

Finding his own voice _finally_, he whispered a "Shut up." But of course, nobody heard him.

More calmly, Kutner told her, "Look, I know it's… _odd_, but it's not _impossible_. I mean – we're talking about a man who had a skull fracture _and_ a heart attack and was working the same _day_."

Too agitated at being ignored, House couldn't even appreciate the sycophant's words.

"You're… right," she said reluctantly. "You can go." Opening his eyes, though, House could see that Kutner was standing mournfully instead over the Game Boy.

He could feel her shift on the bed, her ass brushing up against him in a way he might have liked if he could do anything about it. To House, she asked in a voice that didn't make him want to jam knives into his ears, "Why would you do that?"

Her hands finding his, he immediately tried to jerk away from her cold grip, but she held on. And it was then that House realized it hadn't been a dream earlier; she'd been here, and she'd felt just as cold then.

His voice scratchy, the words mumbled, he said quietly, trying to piece the last several hours back together in his head, "You… left?"

But Cuddy didn't understand. Amused, she asked, "You kicked Kutner because I left?"

He shook his head no, immediately regretting the movement. Closing his eyes to fight off the nausea threatening to overpower him, he swallowed hard.

It just didn't make any sense – what he'd thought had happened over the last day or however long it had been. Cuddy had been here, which meant – he didn't know what it meant. Confusion descended over him, made him feel even more agitated. The sensation, not unlike a spider dancing atop his skin, made it impossible to fall back into sleep. Despite being incredibly tired, he could only try to recall what had happened.

A brief flash before his eyes, House strained momentarily to remember everything Cuddy had said. And though so much of it remained little more than a blur, he heard in his head the words she'd uttered however long ago.

His voice no stronger than before, House half-said, half-asked, "You came back." The last word slightly hitched, he didn't understand why she would do that.

Her response wasn't immediate. She only smiled at him sympathetically then – just as his mother had when she'd made him warm milk years ago. It was the exact same look, he thought, the one said, "I feel bad for you, but we both know you _deserve_ it."

And he suddenly, strongly, wished he'd stayed on the bus – or never woken up – or… something. Because House _knew_ this was his fault, knew he had been responsible, and deserved _every_ bad thing that came his way.

But he didn't want her to blame – he didn't want them to…

His eyes slid shut quickly, and he refused to finish the thought.

Clamping down tightly on the bitter sorrow and guilt, he would _not_ give into the hot desire running through him and _cry_. He would _not._

At that moment, Cuddy squeezed his hand, the tactile motion giving him something to focus on. Her soft fingers clasping around his rough ones, the feel of her cool skin against his – he tried to pay attention to that and not the soft tone of her voice. "I said I was," she told him gently. "Don't you remember –"

"Memory lapses are common," Kutner interrupted, reminding House that he was still in the room. And he was so glad then that he _hadn't_ cried, because he wasn't sure he could live with the shame of knowing he'd lost it in front of his employee.

"I said you could leave," Cuddy told him, her voice getting a dangerous edge to it.

The reply from Kutner was immediate and uttered quickly. "I know. I'm just trying to find all the pieces to this," he explained, probably referring to the Game Boy.

"You can't do that later?"

"Well… it's _his_, and I get that you don't see a problem with him killing me over it," he conceded. "But I don't think it's going to play so well for anyone when word gets out that Caustic-and-occasionally-Racist Guy murdered his brown employee."

"_Fine_," Cuddy hissed. "But make it quick."

Truth be told, though, House had had enough of both of them. Their nearly constant bickering and her pity was wearing House down, was wearing his very finite _patience_ down. And he would have liked nothing more than to see them both leaving.

However, she seemed oblivious to what he wanted, as she turned back to him. Softly again, she explained, "You were trying to sleep, but I said –"

"Remembered," House nearly choked out, the "I" in the sentence caught in his throat.

"Good," Cuddy told him sweetly, in an honest tone that he hated. "Because I'm not leaving, all right?"

She was smiling, about to say more, when he interrupted petulantly, "No." He didn't want her to stay.

Or maybe he did, but he didn't deserve it. "No," he repeated. The words came out awkwardly when House told her, "Don't… stay."

But it was almost immediately obvious that she didn't understand. Leave it to Cuddy to assume the exact _opposite_ of what he was trying to say. Because that stupid smile on her face stayed exactly where it was when she said, "I told you – I'm not going anywhere."

"_No,_" he said as angrily as he could. His hands _finally_, successfully, pulled away from hers and bunched into fists, the sheets getting tangled in between his fingers. This was so frustrating, he thought, that it was almost impossible to resist the temptation to hit something.

Fiercely, he shook his head, the movement angry and fast. The sudden motion made the nausea he'd felt only moments before come back at renewed strength. And it took all of his will power to swallow back the bile itching at the back of his throat.

Waiting until the feeling subsided, he took his time to think of all the words he wanted to say. "No," he told her once more. And with a little less effort, House explained, ordered, "Don't stay."

He watched her face intently, waiting for a reaction. Despite wanting to look away, he kept his gaze on her, for this too was part of his punishment.

But the emotion – whatever it was – he was looking for from her never flitted across her features. Instead, she told him gently, "You don't mean that." And her attention sliding to Kutner, Cuddy spoke firmly, "Get me whoever's on call in neurology."

So she was thinking he was just brain damaged, he thought bitterly. Frustration and helplessness washed over him. _Why_ couldn't he make her understand? _How _many _other_ ways could he say _go away!_

His patience breaking completely, House said as loudly as he could, "No!" His voice filled with fervor, both Kutner and Cuddy turned their attention back to him.

Not that it made any difference.

Her hand running up and down his arm in an unwanted attempt to soothe, Cuddy explained, "You're confused, House… it's…" Her voice faltered then, as she visibly struggled to find words of comfort. "It's okay – it will be _okay_." And leaning closer to him, probably so that Kutner couldn't hear, she told him, "I promise you: I'm not going anywhere." Her hand ventured back down to his and clasped it tightly. "You're safe. I won't –"

"Shut up!" he roared, the sound making him choke and his stomach clench painfully.

And it was then that Cuddy _finally_ heard him.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she pulled back away from him, letting go of his hand. Which made this the first time since she'd come in the room that she'd given him his space.

The sudden distance reminded him of how _cold_ he was, a chill running from his head to his toes. And, if only for a second, he wanted her back where she was.

Until he remembered that this – being alone and pushing her away – was exactly what he deserved.

Her fingers brushing a strand of hair out of her face, Cuddy said stunned, "But…"

"Go away."

His words were harsh, cold, what she needed to hear. And he was beyond caring, because this was what he had earned, and House didn't want her here out of _pity_.

But of course, Cuddy didn't move, didn't speak, so he said it again, _loudly_. "Go away." Their eyes meeting, he silently implored her to listen.

Yet there was a spark in the blue eyes looking back at him, making him realize that… she was going to say no. Her chin raised defiantly, a smug smile manipulating her soft lips into something he hated. "And leave you at the mercy of the nurses who've been itching to get their hands on you for years?" she asked. With absolutely no sympathy in her voice, she told him, "Sorry. But _nobody_ is going to rob me the opportunity of inserting the catheter myself."

"Dude. That's evil," Kutner said, although Cuddy and House ignored him.

Her attention solely on House, she told him, "You're stuck with me." And while her words said one thing, it was obvious in her eyes that she didn't mean it – except for the being stuck with her part, naturally. Not even in this, when he'd earned cruelty and anger, did she have it in her to exact a punishment fitting for him.

Cuddy was _weak_, and he'd thought it for a while. But faced with it now, House found it to be unbearable.

Someone – _anyone_ – in his life should have been able to stop him. There should have been _someone_ who had that ability, _someone_ to tell him no.

But everywhere he looked, there were only people willing to do his bidding and be his friend. And he wanted _none_ of it, not anymore, not since Amber had died and Wilson had given up.

Cuddy could have – _should have­ ­_– been the one to tell him no, but she _wasn't_. Either broken by him or always too _weak_ to do it, she refused to do her job, refused to do what was _required_ of her. And he hated her for it, more than he'd ever hated her.

"Go away," House ordered again, but she made no move towards the door. "Go away." Still nothing, and his agitation took over for him. "Go away, go away, go away!" he snarled.

His head and heart pounded, the words – "Go away" – becoming an audible and internal refrain. This was what he wanted, what he _deserved_, and the longer Kutner and Cuddy refused to _listen,_ the angrier he became.

He could hear his heart monitor beeping loudly, knew in the back of his mind that that wasn't a good sign. But it didn't stop him; it was too late to stop him, the noise inside of him pushing out rational thought and controlling him.

His hands curling into fists, he lashed out at whatever he could. The exhaustion he'd felt so keenly earlier had been all but forgotten; his body was working on its own, seeking things he could destroy. His fists crashed down on whatever was around him – the mattress, his legs, Cuddy – he didn't know what exactly he was hitting, and he didn't care.

House's voice loud and foreign to his own ears, he screamed, demanded, pleaded with them to go away. But Kutner and Cuddy only seemed to descend on him, grabbing him and pulling his limbs away from him. His vision faded to black, to white, blurred to the point where nothing he saw made any sense. He was vaguely aware of his IV line being ripped from his body, of the catheter being yanked out and his thighs getting wet. More hands, ones he'd never felt before, gripped at his flailing body.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, ignited the jet fuel inside of him, and he pushed at everyone trying to stop him. _No, no, no_, the words thought and yelled; this wasn't what he wanted. The noise echoing inside, House barely registered Cuddy's call for Ativan.

A last ditch effort, he kicked lamely at the person pulling his leg into a restraint – ignoring the way it made his thigh burn and head pound.

The needle pricked his heated skin and forced the sedative into his system. Time seemed to instantly stop, if only for a moment. Each second passing by so slowly, he could feel as the drugs moved into each and every part of his body.

His muscles tense and shaking, his breathing heavy and rushed, House felt as though he'd run a marathon. Sweat and urine covering him, he shivered, cold and exhausted. And sleep began to pull him under just as his vision cleared.

Slumber overtaking him, the last thing he saw were the tears slipping down Cuddy's cheeks.

_(End 3/15)_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Thanks to God of Laundry Baskets, Queen S of Randomness 016, and i luv ewansmile for the reviews. They really inspire me to keep writing. Also thank you to my beta, Olly, for all of her help.

_Please read and review._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show. _

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Four: Dawn Without Light  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_A particle will stay at rest or continue at a constant velocity unless acted upon by an external unbalanced net force." – Newton's First Law of Motion_

"Back again so soon?"

Her vibrant eyes slid over to him. The irises flecked with hints of blue and gold, life and mischief, Cutthroat Bitch seemed amused at this development. "I didn't know you had the capacity for so much guilt, _Greg_. It's… really pathetic," she told him honestly, her honeyed tresses lightly swaying back and forth. Whether it was from laughter or something else, House didn't know.

Everything around him shadowed, smothered, in an inky darkness, it was impossible to understand what exactly was going on here… wherever _here_ was.

There was only him and her and a sense of motion, of being hurled through space and time. And paradoxically, House also couldn't help but feel sluggish, as though he couldn't process what he was seeing or hearing in a timely manner. The combination bizarre, he could only liken the sensation to riding a roller coaster on the ocean floor.

Dazed, he looked around, despite knowing the action was pointless, for some sort of hint as to where he was. But there was only _her_.

Amber.

"I'm surprised you don't know where you are," she said with a smirk, reminding him why she'd been given the Cutthroat Bitch moniker.

"Yeah, well, brain injuries and all," he said gruffly. His right hand gesturing to the fractured side of his skull, it took him a few seconds to realize that his head, for the first time in a while, was _not_ throbbing.

In fact, it felt fine.

And so did his leg.

Which meant this wasn't real.

And in that moment, as though timed perfectly to his realization, light flooded the space in a flash of silver and gray. A series of steel and fiberglass-reinforced plastic seats shined under the light, and every so often one would glow golden underneath the rays of a street lamp.

The ground beneath him rumbled, the vibrations inflaming the ache in his thigh. The nerve endings awakening loudly, the pain suddenly returning, House bitterly welcomed the feeling back.

There was no point in doing anything else; fighting his thigh's sting only ever made it feel that much worse, that much more unbearable and overbearing. Closing his eyes briefly, he tried to ride each wave of throbbing pain. Attempting to work through the searing twinge of damaged muscle and nerves, he could no longer sit peacefully here in his hazy confusion.

His daze all but gone, he finally felt aware of himself. The pain in his leg, the smell of booze wafting off of him, he was no longer oblivious to what he was doing.

And House suddenly understood exactly where he was.

The evening breeze mixing with the stale bus air, car exhaust, and CB's perfume – there was only one moment in time when all of those things had met.

It was just one of many instances he'd hoped never to repeat.

But here he was anyway, despite his best efforts, back in that moment.

Back on the bus.

Her gaze fixed on him, Amber smiled serenely. Her skin soft and pale, hair still lightly swaying, she looked practically _angelic_. The smooth angle of her jaw line rested against the bright cranberry of her scarf, Amber's ivory cheek perfectly framed by the red hue.

In the months since he had met her, House had never seen her look like this – so _calm_ and peaceful. She had always been playing the game, had excelled at it better than anyone. Maybe even better than _he_ had played it, because she'd gotten Wilson in the end.

But now that that was gone, he could finally see what Wilson was attracted to.

The Bitch was _pretty._

Of course, she was also still a bitch.

Nevertheless, underneath all that, there was… a _woman_, feminine and soft and not quite so intent on chopping his dick off.

Looking at her as though they were meeting for the first time, he wondered what else he had missed. What _else_ had he not seen? How else had he failed Amber?

Or Wilson, for that matter.

Or himself, he wondered.

Because if he couldn't see this one _obvious _fact, then what else had he missed or missed out on?

The question refused to recede into the back of his mind no matter how hard he tried to push the thought aside. And only when Amber spoke up did he succeed.

Shifting around on the seat across the aisle from him, Amber met his gaze knowingly. Without any chill to her tones, she lamented, "Of course you'd have to wait until I died to see that I'm not completely hideous."

His bleary eyes narrowed on her.

How had she known that?

Was this too another hallucination, their knowledge shared, therefore making her aware of what he was thinking now?

The lengthy and confusing thought turned his drunken mind around. Too inebriated to find a satisfying answer, House could feel the frustration he'd felt for the last few days take hold of him. And speaking loudly over the thrum of the bus, House said bitingly, "Well, I figure if you're gonna keep coming back, I might as well enjoy the view, even if it _does_ come with a measly B cup." The agitation he felt so keenly since the accident lanced through each word sharply.

And the Bitch returned in kind. A humorless laugh escaping her first, she told him afterwards, "Don't blame me for _your_ twisted subconscious."

Shifting around on the plastic seat, House nearly slurred his response. "_You're_ the one haunting _me_." His body swayed more than it should have as the bus changed directions.

And despite the bourbon and Vicodin coursing through his veins, he was more aware than ever of where they were. By his approximation, if they were really repeating what had happened before…

The accident would happen again soon.

The thought turning his mind upside down, his stomach lurched as the bus would once more. Nausea mixing with the pungent feeling of dread, House looked down at his hands and the cane clasped by two fingers. His eyes traveling over each digit (his drunken mind amused at the sight of his thumbs), he desperately searched for a way out of this.

Whether the out was off of the bus or out of his dream entirely, he didn't know.

He didn't care.

In that moment, all that mattered was finding an exit, any method sufficing.

But, aged, rough hands and a flame-enrobed cane staring back at him, his impotency apparent and unrelenting… he knew he was stuck where he was.

Glancing over to Amber, he wondered if she could feel the fear clawing at his belly. Could she smell it over the bourbon and cigarette smoke?

He supposed that, if she did, it was impossible to tell. That serene smile of hers still in place, she looked so relaxed, so… _unaware _of what was coming. A shroud of warm light cloaking her being, a halo of stars dancing around the golden strands of her hair, she was a stark contrast to him.

Her own brilliance juxtaposed forcefully next to his garish tarnish, he was beginning to see a pattern in how he saw her in his mind. And House wondered then if he would always dream of her this way. If his subconscious would strip her of nearly all the bad traits and leave him alone with this one unquestionable truth: she had been a _good_ person, had tried to _help_ him...

And he'd gotten her killed.

She'd been trying to do the right thing, and he'd killed her.

His throat tightening in reaction, he suspected the answer to this particular question was an emphatic yes.

This would be how he saw her from now on.

And there was no avoiding it, because… House knew himself; as much as he liked to make fun of Cuddy for her own guilt, there were times where he could compete with her in that area. Certainly this particular incident was something he'd fixate on, something he'd be unable to easily recover from.

Not that his own feelings mattered much in this situation.

Even if he _could_ forget it and move on, _Wilson_ would never _let_ that happen. It was something they hadn't talked about – the two friends hadn't talked _at all_ – but somehow House knew it to be true.

There would be no forgiving, no forgetting, and absolutely no healing.

Things as they were now would stay that way.

Permanently.

Because Wilson would never let this go, and really, that was all that mattered. Sure, House would heal – he supposed _that_ would change. And Cuddy would probably, eventually, take a hint and give him space.

But Wilson would never forgive him.

Just like this bus would always be destined to crash, no matter how often he dreamed of it… so too would his best friend always hate him.

Sadness rushing through him, he let out a pained sound. The noise, closer to a sob than House liked, escaped his lips, only to be enveloped by the sound of Amber's sneeze.

His weary eyes focusing once again on what was around him, House watched her intently. There was no looking away, as she rummaged around the deep recesses of her purse; there was no denying the anxiety he felt intensely radiate through him.

The pain in his leg seemingly amplifying, even though there was no rational reason for it to do so, he told Amber, "Don't."

Her fingers unscrewed the cap anyway, her smile becoming a sad one. "I'm sick," she said simply.

In desperation, House tried to reach out for the pill bottle. But the sudden shaking of the bus made his already aching leg unable to bear any weight. And stuck where he was, _impotent_ to do anything, he could only watch her fish out the single pill of Amantadine.

"_Don't_," he told her again, his voice louder and even more insistent.

But it was too late.

Militantly she swallowed the stark white pill, destroying any chance of saving her. Which House rationally understood in the back of his mind to be a lie; even if she hadn't taken that pill, the chances of saving her… were abysmal.

No, they were non-existent, because Amber was already _dead._

Of course, he told himself bitterly, it was more than a little difficult to remember that fact when she _kept showing up_.

Sighing dramatically, House bitingly said, "Well, this has been fun. But I think we've spent enough time together in life, don't you?" He pretended to read the watch Kutner had given him. "As much as I like the whole Ghost-of-Christmas-_Ass_ motif, it's time for the old Cameron-in-a-wet-t-shirt dream, and I wouldn't want to keep her waiting. You know how it is."

Amber, looking almost bored, leaned back against her seat. "I'm not haunting you."

"You're _here_," he argued petulantly.

"And," she said, ignoring what he was saying. "If I really were intent on doing any haunting, I'm pretty sure _you_ wouldn't be the first person I visit." With a smirk on her face, Cutthroat Bitch threw his words back at him. "As much as _I_ like this whole lets-ride-the-bus-over-and-over theme, if I had a choice, I _wouldn't_ be here." Her lips widening into a wolfish grin, she explained, "After all, I'd _much_ rather be having the Wilson-in-a-wet-t-shirt dream than indulging your guilt."

"His tits _are_ bigger than Cameron's," House quipped smoothly. And shrugging, he said, "Fine, lets indulge _your_ Playgirl fantasies instead." As much as his best friend being naked could be likened to a train wreck, surely it had to be better than the accident he was about to live through again.

But the Bitch, or his own mind, had other plans. "That's not part of the dream."

Grumpily, he replied, "Didn't realize there was an itinerary."

"_Yes_, you did," she points out.

That Amber had known what he'd been thinking earlier wasn't all that surprising; since she wasn't real – or at least said she wasn't – that meant she was simply part of his imagination. And if that were true, then they shared the same knowledge, because she was a _part_ of him.

But that didn't mean he appreciated it in that moment.

If anything, he resented it, resented _her_ for being aware of something that he wanted to keep to himself. And because of that, House looked at her, his blue eyes flashing angrily. The sharpness of his glare only surpassed by the crispness of his words, he demanded, "Isn't it time for you to _go_?"

"Is that what you want?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course that's what I want. You're _dead_. You should be stinking up the morgue and waiting to become worm food – _not_ bothering _me_," he argued irritably.

But if he expected her to fight back, to go toe to toe with him as she usually did, he was wrong. Because, with a simple shrug and a small smile, all she said was, "If that's what you want…"

Her voice trailed off, the near silence descending on them an immediate warning. Ominous and overwhelming, the eerie quiet seemed to only tantalize his overwrought mind and foster the acrid adrenaline burning at the back of his throat.

In a second, House realized that he had been _so wrong_ in asking Amber to leave. By doing so, by forcing the conversation to end, by somehow _wishing_ her to be gone, he had moved them to the next stage of the dream.

To the accident.

The thought punctuated, pierced, _extinguished_ by the sound of metal slamming into metal, House instinctively clutched at the pole and seat around him.

Glass shattered loudly around them, thick shards hailing down on their bodies. The former pieces of window slashed through clothes and skin, leaving biting cuts and beads of blood in their wake. Hurling forward still, the jagged splinters pinged against the plastic and metal of the rest of the bus.

Headlights that blinded nearly engulfed the whole of Amber's form. His eyesight unfocused with liquor, it was almost surprising how clearly he could make out the halo of blonde hair around her. The thick strands fanned out from the force slamming into her back; her body unable to absorb the impact, she flew.

Fell.

Like a broken rag doll.

Their hands instinctively reaching for one another – a break from their mutual, habitual, sense of self-preservation, House could feel every fiber of his being try to grab hold of her. Muscle, tendon, and bone all wanting to keep her safe, he did not hold back, did not think of himself.

In that moment, he did not think.

There was no sense that this had happened before, no understanding, nor any concern as to why this was occurring.

They were, in that instant, no longer House and the Bitch, no longer adversaries fighting for the same thing – Wilson. As they both clung to the piece of plastic and metal spinning out of control, as they tried to grab onto one another, those past distinctions seemed so… _useless_.

Their fingertips almost touching, the bus lurched to the side violently. Rubber squealing on pavement, both House and Amber being flung inside the car, everything suddenly went to black.

And there was silence.

His eyeballs felt as though they were on fire, he thought, as his eyelids fluttered open. Consciousness slowly stoking the nerve endings within him, House decided a correction to that sentence was necessary.

_Every _part of him felt as thought it had been burned, as though he'd been placed in a frying pan and left to cook for several hours.

And looking down at his hand, he couldn't help but lazily think that the metaphor worked perfectly; his fingers were the exact color of overcooked bacon, that perfectly red and pink shade the pork got right before it caught on fire and turned black.

The sight not particularly attractive, House swallowed hard and tried to remember how he'd hurt his hand.

Wiggling his fingers around, he could tell he'd definitely _burned_ the hand.

But how would that happen on a _bus_?

Had he…

The rest of the question was swallowed up in the humid haze surrounding his mind. Swallowing hard, House tried to piece together what had happened to get him in this state – if it wasn't the bus that actually did this.

As he tried desperately to figure out how he got here, a flash of green appeared in his peripheral vision. The sudden movement making him feel nauseous, it was with effort that he turned his head to look.

It was Wilson.

And there was no need to ask aloud if this were a dream or reality, because the answer was obvious.

This couldn't be real, because Wilson… would probably never talk to him ever again.

Which meant that this could only be something his subconscious had created. And though it wasn't real, unlike before, House had no desire to escape this world. Because there was pain here, but it was the kind he could live with.

It was the type that still kept Wilson near him.

And it was pathetic, even to his own mind, that that fact mattered more than anything else.

But there it was, unalterable and undeniable. Not that House cared to deny it; for the first time in… he didn't know how long, he was content with the fantasy, with the lie that held no meaning.

What was_ real_ was so completely inferior to this that he was content to close his eyes and allow himself to live in the moment.

Breathing in slowly, he nestled himself deeper into the covers. His body relaxed, despite the burn, he gave into the comfortable lull of the room.

Which was promptly destroyed when Wilson spoke up, "You're an idiot." The words were said with great earnest, making House wonder if this _was_ reality.

The desperate thought niggling in the recesses of his mind, he looked around the room for a sign that this was real and that everything before had been fake. Because this was infinitely better; Wilson was here, and Cuddy was gone, and his best friend was mad, but… there was also concern lacing every tone.

There was hurt in every word, especially when Wilson said, "You nearly killed yourself."

Unbidden, House replied, "That was the whole idea." As soon as he spoke, he wondered why the words sounded so familiar.

"You _wanted_ to kill yourself?" Wilson asked in disbelief.

"I wanted to _nearly_ kill myself." The explanation was one he had used before, hadn't he? His mind feeling like a fried egg, his eyes the overcooked yokes, he couldn't place where he was.

But, if it felt familiar, House reasoned it had to have happened at some point. He didn't believe in déjà vu, didn't believe in wild coincidences – although he might have to reconsider that, given the freakish oddity of Amber's death.

As they began to talk about… a patient, he supposed, House tried desperately to follow the thought process; he'd been on the bus, and now…

The delicate puzzle pieces just out of reach, he didn't have the answer.

"Maybe you didn't want to die, but you didn't care if you lived," Wilson pointed out.

Having lived in that gray area for so long, House thought to himself that his friend's words were of _no_ help. Truth be told, there were just too many times when House had put himself on the line for no apparent reason, too many instances where the need for an answer had outweighed personal safety.

An imbalance too obvious to deny, he understood that his mind could be transporting him to any number of days in his life.

So he went with it.

After all, what was the point in having a dream better than reality if you weren't going to enjoy it?

His body working on its own accord, House found himself saying things that didn't make sense to the part of his mind that was conscious to reality. The words familiar but not entirely understandable, he tried not to think about what was going on around him.

Which was easier than he thought it would be.

Wilson was _so_ close and _so_ concerned that it was impossible to think much of anything else. Not even the physical pain he was in could compete with that fact.

"I'm going to order up some extra pain meds," Wilson announced suddenly, scribbling into House's chart quickly.

The generous act wasn't entirely necessary; his body ached and burned, but the morphine flooding his system was enough to counteract the pain. And part of him knew that he should tell his friend no, should refuse the extra drugs.

But… he didn't.

The lie surrounding him so obvious, House could only mumble in complete honesty, "I love you." Each word slightly slurring into the next, it didn't sound, he realized, all that sincere.

But he meant it.

Every single word.

He _did_ love Wilson, even if in that moment it sounded more like he was happy to be getting drugs. He loved his best friend, loved him enough to risk his life for him and for _her_.

But if Wilson knew that…

He didn't show it.

Instead, Wilson mechanically placed the chart back on the foot of the bed. With one last sad glance at House, he turned and walked away.

Wilson's footsteps languid and soft, House carefully listened as the noise got lower and quieter until he could hear them no longer. Silence his only companion once more, he couldn't help but think…

How Wilson would never trust him again.

How he would never care about him like this again.

How he would never say those words in return.

How caring about Wilson this much hadn't been enough to keep him around.

The thought twisted his stomach into knots, a bitter acid churning tumultuously within him. Suddenly feeling hot and cold, trapped and alone, House shifted violently on the bed. Desperate to get up, desperate to escape, he pushed at the sheets around him.

And he woke up.

Sweat glided along the contours of his face; a few stray beads stung his eyes, temporarily blurring his vision.

Not that there was anything interesting to see.

For the past few days, the room had been exactly same – filled with unbearably boring neutral colors and Cuddy who was just as dull.

Or perhaps he should say that she had _become_ just as dull.

In the past, she had been someone he could annoy, someone he could challenge, and someone who would challenge him back. But now… since his little _outburst_, Cuddy treated him as though she thought he would break at any time over any tiny thing.

Every conversation – if it could even be called that – they had was tainted by it. If House asked for something, she would either give it to him immediately or tell him no in the weakest way imaginable. Instead of denying him, she would hedge and make excuses, and frankly, it was _annoying_.

She thought that he was so fragile, but really… she was just making things _worse_.

Unbearable.

Because nothing else in the room changed. And without any distractions, House had _nothing_ to take his mind off of what had happened. Nearly each minute of consciousness spent thinking of how he'd _killed_ Amber and driven Wilson _away_, he was trapped.

His own mind a prison, his current physical state all the barbed wire needed to keep him in his place, there was no escaping. No avoiding the events that haunted and tormented him.

Which only served to make him _more_ agitated.

So, great job, Cuddy, he thought bitterly.

His eyes slid over to where he instinctively knew she was; it was the same place all week essentially. Save for a few minutes when she disappeared, Cuddy had spent all of her time perched to the left of him. And right now was no different.

Her body was once more sprawled out on the mauve recliner. Chin tucked to her chest, pale, make up free cheek lightly obscured by her dark hair, she was sleeping. Her petite legs stretched out, House finally noticed her bare feet resting precariously by his arm.

The action shouldn't have annoyed him.

But it did.

Or really… it _didn't_, but he could feel himself becoming irritated by it nonetheless. That was how everything was for him these days; little things that weren't annoying irritated him. Anger and frustration his constant companions, he had no choice but to give into the emotions whenever they tugged at him.

And whether that was because of the need to focus on something other than Wilson being gone or the fact that Cuddy was insinuating herself where she shouldn't that bothered him, he didn't know.

He didn't care.

The image of Amber being tossed around on the bus and Wilson walking away too much to bear, House gave into the agitation pulling at his consciousness.

Screwing his face up in concentration, he slowly slid his hand over to Cuddy's feet. But he didn't touch right away, didn't make a move. After all, there were considerations to be made. Was she ticklish? Would that annoy her enough? Or should he just go for pain?

In the end, House settled for a pinch, hard and prolonged, on the top of her foot.

It worked.

Almost immediately she moved, a low moan escaping her throat as she pulled away from him. The chair groaning under her as she shifted around, slowly Cuddy opened her eyes. Fingers pushing a delicate curl out of her face, she glanced over at him. "House?" she asked in confusion. Her voice was raspy with sleep.

Looking over towards the window at the room, she noticed, just as he did, that it was still mostly dark outside. Only a small fraction of the sun was visible, lightly tainting the black sky with red and orange.

If his internal clock was anywhere near close, it had to be approaching dawn – too early for anything interesting to happen.

But apparently Cuddy didn't agree. Her face already etched with cloying concern, she didn't have to open her mouth to annoy him. She'd probably already assumed that something was wrong, that he was dying or something equally ridiculous.

And he wished then that he'd never woken her up.

Especially when she sat up, taking her feet off the bed, and asked, "What's wrong?" The distress so obvious in each syllable, she sounded more worried than was rationally warranted in the situation.

Which was annoying.

She was _not_ his mother. She was _never_ going to be his girlfriend.

She _was_ his boss _and_ his _doctor_, and right now, she was incompetently fulfilling both of those roles.

"House?" Cuddy moved closer to the hospital bed and took his hand in hers.

Pulling away, he snapped bitterly, "You. _You're _the problem – you and your _feet_ on _my_ bed." The anger and accusation were obvious in his tones. But even more apparent was her immediate reaction. Her blue eyes widening and then filling with sadness and maybe a hint of annoyance, his effect on her was easy to see.

There was no apology from her; perhaps she knew that one would _not_ have been welcome. Nor did she tell him to get over it or calm down or anything else she might have normally told him. Instead Cuddy numbly nodded her head and sat back down quietly.

And odd though it was, his agitation only seemed to _increase_ by her actions, or inaction as it were.

What he wanted from her House didn't exactly know. But he definitely _didn't_ want to feel fragile, didn't want to feel… _dismissed_. And he definitely didn't want to keep feeling as though at any moment he or Cuddy (who couldn't possibly be as patient and kind as she was trying to be) would snap and start shouting.

Yet that's precisely where they were headed – for a huge fight that would force both of them to say horrible things that they didn't (or at least _she_ didn't) mean. Somehow… Cuddy trying to _avoid_ a fight was making one inevitable.

Which made absolutely no sense, he knew. The irrationality of it all was obvious even to his own weary eyes. And worse still was knowing that… this wasn't how things should have been.

There were natural laws to the universe; what came up eventually came back down and the like, and if there was a law to his own private universe, it was this: the further he moved away from Wilson, the closer House got to Cuddy. A never-ending back and forth, whenever things had gotten too bad with his best friend, she had stepped in and tried to be that companion for him.

And House could see that that was what she was trying to do here.

But it was all wrong; she wasn't doing it right, or maybe he just didn't know how to respond to it anymore, because he now knew all too well that this wasn't just a temporary thing as it had been in the past. The way things were now was inalterable, and if House let Cuddy in, then she would _stay_ there.

Because Wilson definitely wasn't ever going to come back… at least not any time soon.

And that fact alone had now sent House down a completely different course. Gone was the normal dynamic of their little threesome. In its place was something far more destructive. Coupled with his inability to calm down and Cuddy's incompetence, it only left one possible outcome: House ending up alone.

They were already headed down that path now; he knew it, could feel it. Wilson had left, or at least was in the process of leaving. And Cuddy would too… eventually. All she needed was a great shove in that direction.

And though part of him didn't want her to go, House knew… his personality would be all the impetus she needed for that first step.

_End (4/15)_


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: Special thanks to DoctorLisaCuddy, Queen S of Randomness 016, and lhoma320 for the reviews. I really do appreciate the encouragement so thank you for that. Also thanks to my beta, Olly, for her help.

Remember – reviews are love.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Five: Were, Are, Will Be  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Systems theory is a theory designed to study unified whole and self-organizing systems; it's based upon the idea that the whole is different from the sum of the individual parts. It stresses the interdependent and interactional nature of the relationships that exist among all the components of a system."_

"No."

"Why not?"

"_Because_ I said _no_."

"That's not a rational reason."

"_No_."

Sighing Cuddy took a step away from the hospital bed. Frustration fraying her already stressed nerves, she struggled not to yell. Biting down on the side of her cheek, she tried to remind herself that getting into a shouting match would _not _help matters.

But that was obviously easier said than done, as House seemed desperate for a fight. His eyes blazing and gaze accusing since the moment he'd woken up practically, every comment he had made lately seemed unnecessarily cruel. Not that he was typically kind, Cuddy realized, but she could feel the difference between how he normally behaved and _this_.

Even if she couldn't exactly put it into words, part of her knew that something inside of House had changed. And whether that was because of what he'd been through emotionally or the result of his brain injury, she didn't know. Although she supposed at some point the answer would make itself clear, she could, in the meantime, only tiptoe around him carefully.

But, _God_, he wasn't going to make that easy.

Her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, Cuddy tried to bite back the frustration she felt keenly. "House," she started to say, carefully modulating her voice. His name uttered with as much caution possible, in the back of her mind, she prayed that he would _listen_. But, having spent the last fifteen minutes running around in circles, trying to convince him she was right, Cuddy doubted anything would change.

She was right.

"_No_," he nearly growled, his eyes narrowed and lips turned into a deep frown. Something approaching hatred emanating off of him, it was all she needed to know that he wasn't going to listen to her.

Well, actually, truth be told, this lengthy, roundabout conversation they were neck deep in was proof enough. They'd been at it for a good twenty minutes, House using what little energy he had to keep telling her no.

To keep denying the treatment he _needed_.

The seriousness of the situation hitting her once more, Cuddy steeled herself for another round of back and forth.

Taking a tentative step back towards the bed, she couldn't help but notice the look of agitation on his face become even sharper. Everything about him said _stay away_, so she settled for sitting in the chair by his bedside.

In the back of her mind, she realized she had one more shot – _maybe_ – to get through to him. Not that there was _ever_ a time when he was predisposed to listening her. But… the longer this conversation dragged on, the less likely it would be that he would listen to her. Because the longer they talked about this, the more she'd be annoying him, and the more House would feel the need to say no just to _irritate_ her back.

And that didn't even take into account his brain injury.

Already he looked exhausted, his irritation the only thing keeping him going. The sharp angles of his thinning body slightly eased and worn by his need for sleep, it was another reminder of all he had been through as well as the need to end this conversation as soon as possible. Were she to keep pushing, by the time he agreed, he'd be too exerted and drained to sign the damn release form.

Knowing that there was no time to screw around, Cuddy leaned forward and clasped his hand in hers. The pads of his fingers rough and worn, sweat pooling between each digit, he felt hot to the touch – a reminder of what was wrong.

Her throat feeling full and thick at that knowledge, she squeezed his hand. Her grip firm and cool, the gesture was enough to earn a glare from House.

Wrenching himself away from her as best as he could, he snapped at her, "If you're so concerned about feeding me, why don't we just skip the middle man." Gesturing angrily toward her, he said, "Slap a diaper on me and whip out your tits and lets be done with it."

Cuddy bit down on the inside of her cheek, desperately trying _not_ to take the bait he was throwing her way. "As fun as that sounds, I was hoping for a feeding tube instead," she told him dryly.

"Breast _is_ best," he countered sarcastically. Shuffling around uncomfortably on the bed, House suggested, "That's what this is really about, right? You're more barren than the desert, and nobody in their right mind would _give_ you a kid, so the next best thing is playing nursey with me."

The stick he so often aimed at everyone else had been turned on her once more. The wood jabbed painfully into her side, she could feel her skin and muscles give way. Scraping against the inner recesses of her marrow, the rod dug in as far as it could go. The acute sting feeling so real to her, Cuddy instinctively looked down.

Surprised by the lack of blood, she blinked. Her eyelids fluttering shut and open once more, she told herself it was as much to make sure wasn't injured, as it was to blink back tears.

Letting out a ragged breath, she looked at House once more. "This… isn't about me," she told him, trying to keep her voice even. "You may not… _like_ my motives. But I'm not wrong about the medicine."

"_Yeah,_" he said incredulously. "I'm really gonna trust the opinion of a doctor who spends her days stapling and accessorizing her collection of colored paperclips with her low-cut tops."

Cuddy ignored his harsh words. "Hypermetabolism. Tell me where I'm wrong," she challenged, folding her arms across her chest.

His eyes no longer boring holes into her closed in concentration. Searching for an answer, a way to prove her wrong, House seemed desperate to focus on the task at hand. Face screwed up in concentration, he was working against the brain injury and his exhaustion, she knew.

And Cuddy thought it was wrong, just sitting in front of him, watching him struggle for an answer. Much like watching someone flail about in the ocean, she realized that she should put an end to this, tell him to stop.

But she stayed quiet.

A voice whispering in the back of her mind, she could practically hear herself think that, if anyone could come up with an alternative theory under those conditions, it was House. And if there were any possibility that she was _wrong_, _he_ would be the one to uncover it.

But the answer she nearly expected never came.

Instead of being called an idiot and being forced to listen to a condescending explanation, she was left with silence.

And when he opened his eyes once more, the defeat so obvious in his gaze, Cuddy could feel guilt creep into her veins once more. A familiar feeling, one that she wished she were immune to, it immediately made her wonder _why_ she had challenged him in the first place.

Because he needed treatment, a part of her snarled back at her encroaching remorse. Because it was the right thing to do, even if it _wasn't_ the right thing to do.

"Fever, excessive sweating –"

"That would go with the fever," House interrupted bitterly.

"Sudden, rapid weight loss," she pointed out gently.

He rolled his eyes. "Might have something to do with the interesting but completely inedible food you –"

"But you _like_ the hospital food," Cuddy told him. "CRP is nine _hundred_ times what it –"

"Means my liver's still working… surprisingly enough," he said, sounding almost surprised by that fact.

"It _shouldn't_ be – not like this, and with your brain –"

"My heart," House interrupted suddenly, loudly, her voice trailing off.

The tension in her shoulders immediately left her, her body slightly slumping into the back of the chair. The guilt she had felt so keenly only moments previously seemed long gone, as to be nothing more than a distant memory.

His mind was still there.

It had taken prompting, but it was still there – or _here_, as it were, not completely lost in the confines of his body.

But if House shared the same feeling of relief, he was too interested in insulting her to say it. "My _heart_, you _idiot_. Did you even _think_ about that or were you too busy looking for reasons to keep me _here_ with _you_ to be a _doctor_?"

He was livid, for reasons she could only slightly understand. As upset as he typically got over what he _perceived_ to be idiocy, this was different.

This was _worse_.

The veins in his neck bulging, every visible bit of muscle and sinew was tense and strained. Sweat dripping off his forehead and eyes hot with anger, House seemed once again intent on relinquishing all of his self-control.

She, however, was not ready to do the same. Calmly Cuddy told him, "_All_ your symptoms point to –"

"_No_," he said firmly, shaking his head slowly without lifting it off of the pillow. "And just so we're clear, when you ask me again in thirty seconds, I'm gonna say no then too."

Folding her arms across her chest, she asked, "There's nothing I can say that will make you change your mind? You'd rather lay in that bed and be _miserable_ and let your body feast on _itself_ than get help."

House shrugged. "A girl's got to keep her figure somehow. We can't all let ourselves go like you obviously have,"

She scoffed, raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you think calling me fat is going to make me drop this?"

"No," he replied honestly. "But I _was_ hoping it'd be enough to send you crying to the little girls' room."

She rolled her eyes. "You've been rude to me for… _years_, House. Getting rid of me is going to take a little more than calling me fat," Cuddy explained, her voice firm but absent of any anger or challenge; as annoyed as she was, she did _not_ want to upset him. Really, all she wanted in that moment was for him to accept what she was saying as true – that he was sick, that he needed her help, and that she had no intention of running away.

"Can't blame a guy for trying." Not that she'd expected any different, but he sounded and looked completely unapologetic.

"Why are you so intent on getting me to leave?" she asked curiously.

Of course, in typical fashion, he turned the question back on her, "Why are you so intent on _staying_?"

"You're in the hospital, and I'm your doctor," she hedged initially, unsure of how much she should say, of how much he would be willing to hear. But when he gave her a look of disbelief and opened his mouth to speak, Cuddy knew she should keep talking. "_And_," she said, speaking over the words he'd begun to utter, "I… care about you. Which is painful to hear, I know," she told him preemptively. "But you are just going to have to accept it. Because, as much as I would _love_ to smack you, I'm not going anywhere." As an afterthought, Cuddy added, "Someone has to make sure the nurses don't poison you."

"Thanks," he told her, not sounding thankful at all. "But I'd rather take my chances with the med school dropouts."

"That's not up to you."

"So I can consent to tubes, but that's it." His voice was filled with accusation and an arrogance he liked to reserve for when he made his point.

And although she had been trying all week to avoid saying things that would upset him, Cuddy couldn't stop herself from saying, "I can start inserting the NG tube against your will, if you'd prefer."

"What I would _prefer_ is only one annoyance at a time. Since it seems scientifically impossible to be irritant free…"

She frowned, realizing what it was that he was asking for. "So… what – you're saying is… me or the tube?" Instinctively knowing she'd gotten it right, Cuddy didn't bother to listen to the sarcasm he offered in response.

But less easy to ignore was the way his blue eyes narrowed on her. Clearly waiting for her to agree, House looked at her as though he was expecting her to turn and walk right out the door.

Which honestly _pissed_ Cuddy off.

It was just like him to believe that everyone's loyalties could be bought, that everyone would leave him under a particular set of circumstances.

It was just like him to _ignore_ her concern and care and look for reasons to send her away.

And maybe, she conceded, he had more reason to believe in that dark view of human nature since Wilson had left.

Since _Wilson_ had been ready to throw their friendship away for _Amber_.

And, in the back of her mind, she realized it wasn't entirely his fault. House was already messed up, already headed down this road regardless of what Wilson did or didn't do. And though part of her wished she didn't, Cuddy could, deep down, understand Wilson's grief and his desire to do whatever it took to keep his girlfriend alive.

But at the same time…

She was angry anyway – at House for being so closed off from others that all he had was Wilson and at Wilson for eventually rejecting House's friendship. Furious at the conflux of events that made _this_ possible, Cuddy wanted nothing more than for things to return to normal.

But the chances of that happening seemed unlikely, about as likely as House accepting her friendship for what it was, anyway.

The thought leaving her almost as empty and sad as learning about the deep brain stimulation had, she was, in that moment, tempted to throw in the towel. Because Wilson was mad at her for making a choice, and House _would_ be mad at her for choosing him, and…

There was no way she could win.

But just as she was about to tell House angrily that she had _no_ intention of leaving, an idea hit her.

He'd pretty much already admitted it – if she was willing to leave, he would sign the consent forms. And… Cuddy realized then that she could agree to that. Could do it _easily_, because _nowhere_ had House said that she had to go _permanently. _

Trying to contain her joy, she told him in even tones, "Fine. Agree to the tube and I'll go away."

"Fine," he said easily, giving in in a way that was completely unlike him. In a way that made no sense unless…

"This was your plan all along – fight me on a diagnosis to get what you want," Cuddy said in dawning realization.

"Kinda cool how I can _still_ outsmart you, don't you think?" he asked arrogantly. But if he wanted a fight, she wasn't going to give him one, instead choosing to bite down on the inside of her cheek again. "You gonna give me the tube, or were you hoping I'd tell you how?"

"Lets just get this over with," she replied in irritation. In all honesty, if she weren't so intent on holding onto him…

She might have been content to let him go.

But if House had expected (and he hadn't _really_) to be left alone, he was sorely disappointed. Too soon after Cuddy had inserted the tube and left, the door to his room slid open. His weary eyes immediately offering the best glare possible, he was hoping Cuddy would immediately take the hint and turn back around.

And yet, as the blonde stepped into the room, all pretense of anger disappeared. Leaving only a few burning embers of annoyance, the emotion was replaced by surprise.

"You should be resting," Cameron said, taking a couple steps toward his bed.

Without remorse, he told her, "Sorry, but you should know that the role of annoying-doc-who-won't-leave-my-bedside has already been filled." He turned his head away from her and muttered, "Take it up with Cuddy."

"She's the one who sent me." She sounded matter of fact, her voice breezy and unconcerned – as though she _hadn't_ been reduced to being a fourteen year old with braces babysitter.

Annoyed, House said, "Of course."

But clearly not wanting to partake in a tirade on their boss, Cameron moved to his side. And it was then, in closer proximity, that he could see it: the bottle of Perative.

The color of puked-up Creamsicle, it looked like the consistency of baby food, only slightly runnier. His stomach churning at the sight, spending time with Cuddy, he realized, _wasn't_ the worst thing in the world.

But he'd already made his choice, had already sent her away, and that meant… he was just going to have to deal with the sludge. His eyes still focused on the purple label, he barely heard Cameron mention, "X-ray was good."

"Not that it was necessary," he told her begrudgingly.

Truth be told, the extra precaution hadn't taken that long; but the time it _had_ taken was time that could have been used to start feeding him. And while House wasn't exactly interested in being fed through a tube like some anorexic on Lifetime, he realized that the sooner he started, the sooner it would be over.

"As tempting as it must be to let you aspirate… she was being careful," she explained, as she began to set up the pump by the side of his bed.

Shaking his head, House told her, "Don't. Hang it in the air."

"No. You have to use the pump or you'll be sick." Three years ago, it would have been unthinkable to hear her speak like that, but here she was, no room for compromise in her tones.

"I'll be fine," he said, trying to bargain. And he knew then that Cameron hadn't been the only one to change. Even just three years ago for _himself_ – hell, three _weeks_ ago, he couldn't have imagined himself caring over something as small as a stupid pump. But here he was, worried that the very low buzz in his ear would turn into something unbearable if the pump were to be used.

"Yes, you will," she agreed. "Because you're going to get your nutrition in carefully monitored doses." As she turned the pump on, Cameron muttered, "I'm beginning to remember why I quit."

Trying to focus on something other than the tangerine liquid flowing towards his stomach, House finally took in Cameron's appearance. Her body still leaning forward, he couldn't help but try to get a peek at her cleavage… to no avail. The V of her scrubs too shallow, her breasts too small, his eyes, stinging slightly with sweat, got no candy.

How apropos.

But as his gaze journeyed upwards, he finally noticed, "Your make up – it's different."

"It happens," she said, brushing him off, as though the extra mascara, lipstick, and blush meant nothing.

"Trying to make Chase jealous?"

Her own gaze met his sharply then. "Why would I be trying to make Chase jealous?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why would you ask that?"

There was a beat, a fraction of a pause, before they both said at the same time, "The make up's different."

"I was at Amber's funeral," Cameron admitted.

He thought about it for a second. "And the extra lipstick was to remind him that live chicks are _way_ sexier than dead ones?"

"Cuddy wasn't there," she announced. Her voice filled with both a confidence and tentativeness, her eyes immediately searching his, she was clearly looking for a reaction. And she was clearly going to get one, because her baiting had caught his attention.

"Interesting segue," he said, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. "But since you brought it up, for no _apparent_ reason, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you think this is somehow _my_ fault."

"I _don't_ think it's your fault," she told him defensively. "But I thought you should know that –"

"That Cuddy stayed here?" he asked in disbelief.

"That Wilson was_ here_ and they got into a fight, _yeah_, I thought you might like to know." Her voice was as agitated as he felt.

Sitting up a little further, House wouldn't deny that his curiosity had been piqued. "I'm listening." But she hesitated then, eliciting a low growl from the back of his throat. "You can't tell someone _that_ and then back off."

Cameron sighed. "Well, I wasn't there, but I heard that…"

Wilson hadn't planned on being back at the hospital so soon; still too stunned and broken by what had happened, he'd barely considered getting out of bed much less getting dressed and leaving the apartment.

But the phone call had changed all that.

An unfamiliar voice cool and formal, showing a complete lack of empathy, had said, "Dr. Wilson, we need you to pick up your wife's belongings."

The words had burned, had _stung_. The constant sense of loss had become intensely acute in that moment, the word, "wife," filling him with bitter longing for what might have been. As he'd blindly agreed to come in, Wilson had recalled what a patient – or maybe it had been the parent of a patient – had said to him years earlier:

There was no grieving like the kind you had for the future you could no longer have.

And at the time, he hadn't thought about it much; in fact, as he'd recalled in that moment, he'd been pretty sure _House_ had interrupted that conversation by bursting in and ranting about Cuddy and a particularly uncooperative patient.

But, for whatever reason, Wilson had thought of what she'd said, and since then, he hadn't been able to forget it. Everything around him reflecting Amber's tastes, how could he _forget_? Each and every step he'd taken, each glance around the room – _all of it_ had been a reminder of the woman he'd loved and the future they would _never_ have together.

A future that… had been ripped away from him.

Because of… _House._

The irony of it all had begun to seep into his consciousness then, slowly creating a budding bitter taste in the back of his throat. But it hadn't been until he'd gone to the hospital, had been told that they didn't have Amber's things, that it had really started to become a tangible presence.

"Dr. Wilson," the nurse had said impatiently. "We already gave you all the belongings we had here at the hospital."

His hands curled at his sides, he'd replied, "There was a phone call – I had a –"

"I don't know who placed the call," she'd said nervously. "But I've checked several times for you know, and there isn't –"

"Where's Cuddy?" His voice had been gruffer than he'd intended, filled with the frustration he'd felt keenly.

"She's with a patient."

An almost sudden reluctance to give him any more information had made his eyes narrow on the petite nurse. His mouth slightly agape and ready to ask where he needed to go, Wilson had realized then that there was only _one_ patient they wouldn't want him near.

_House_.

Without another word, he'd turned away from the nurse's station. His hands still clenched into fists, he'd quickly made his way to the part of the hospital Cuddy surely would have moved House to by now (assuming the older man was recovering nicely, and House never _didn't_ recover that way).

And when he'd gotten there, making sure to stay far enough away from the glass windows so he couldn't be seen, the irony had become too much. Because, looking in at House and Cuddy, Wilson had finally been able to see just what was going on.

She was going to be there for _him_.

Wilson hadn't thought it possible, hadn't even considered that she might make a choice. But clearly, she had – thought about it and made it, and…

She had chosen _him_.

The idea too unbearable to believe, Wilson had known that he wouldn't have believed it if not for the sight before him. Through the glass windows, he'd watched House contort his lips into a sneer and bark at Cuddy. The physical barrier had been too thick for Wilson to hear the exact words, but it hadn't been enough to stop him from getting the general idea of the conversation; he'd seen his best friend act like an ass too many times to _not_ know the signs.

And in that moment, _all_ the signs had been neatly on display. Every line on House's face visible and curved in annoyance, Wilson had been, even from this distance, able to catch the sweat, reflecting in the fluorescent lights, and irritation cascading over the older man's features. A red flush spreading across his neck and dotting his face, House had looked absolutely livid.

And Cuddy, _not_ in her white coat, had looked… concerned, conciliatory, _apologetic_, even though Wilson had doubted she'd done anything wrong. One of her hands clasped around the wrist House had placed on the bed, the other pushing a sweaty, brown strand of hair off of his forehead – there'd been something so _intimate_ in her actions. Something so _blatantly_ unprofessional about it that it had felt as though… she'd been advertising that shift in their relationship, as if she'd been trying to say, "I'm going to give House what he _stole_ from Amber."

Waves of emotions had crashed on Wilson's shoulders then, had turned his stomach inside out, making it nearly impossible to keep himself from vomiting. Surprise had hit him first – he hadn't even seen it coming, despite knowing that the signs had been there ever since Tritter. And Wilson _should_ have seen it coming, he'd told himself.

Shock quickly funneling into an acute self-loathing, he'd asked himself why he'd refused to see it before. Why hadn't he accepted a _long_ time ago that when it came down to it, a woman like Cuddy would _always_ choose a man like House? Why hadn't he figured out that she would _never_ protect her measly oncologist the way she protected her Goddamn _resource_?

That question in his mind, he'd been unable to stop himself from wondering what was wrong with him. In childhood, Wilson had learned all the things a "man" should have been, and though he'd in some ways never _sought_ to be that ideal, he'd known that he _was_ that person. Smart and funny, kind and sympathetic, active and well rounded – he'd fit that mold _beautifully_. Maybe he hadn't been as intelligent as House; maybe Cuddy hadn't seen Wilson as a _genius_, but the fact had remained that there was _no_ logical reason for Cuddy to choose _him_.

House might have had a leg up in that one little area, but as far as Wilson had been able to see, that was _it._

And her choice just made _no sense_, he'd thought.

His inability to understand quickly morphing into anger over _her_ stupidity, Wilson hadn't noticed Cuddy pick up the phone in House's room. Nor had he been aware that she was heading toward him until he'd heard her heels click on the linoleum and she'd been right in front of him.

"Wilson?" she'd asked, her voice tentative and brow furrowed in concern.

He'd blinked, surprised to see her in front of him. His emotions still too jumbled, he'd been unable to speak.

So she'd repeated his name, her hand reaching out and touching his forearm. "Are you okay?"

He'd swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, of which emotion to give into. "I, uh… they _called_ me," he'd explained, frustration in his tones. "Said they had some of Amber's things, but…" His voice had trailed off; the energy he'd needed to finish the thought seemingly too much for him.

Cuddy had frowned. Taking a step closer to him, she'd told him, "The hospital already released her things. After she… died," she said, her voice hitching slightly on the word. "There's nothing here."

But Wilson had known that she was _lying_. "I got a _call_, Cuddy. You can't tell me there's nothing –"

"The other hospital," she'd blurted out.

Pulling his arm away from her touch, he'd asked, agitated, "What?"

Calmly she'd explained, "Before she was here. Before you had her transferred _here_. The other hospital – they would have her things from when she was first admitted."

His hands had dropped to his sides; blinking, he'd let out a rush of air before turning away from Cuddy. Dumbfounded, Wilson had admitted, "I didn't… I didn't even _think_ of that."

His mind still trying to wrap itself around the new information, he'd flinched the moment Cuddy had slid an arm along his back. Pulling his body into a makeshift hug, she'd told him quietly, "I'm sure that's where her things are."

"Yeah," he'd muttered, feeling like such an _idiot_. One of his hands gesturing towards his head, Wilson had repeated, "I just didn't even think –"

Her voice gentle and reassuring, she'd suggested, "Why don't we sit down for a second… okay?" She'd glanced back at House, then, and _that_ had not gone unnoticed by Wilson.

The shame he'd been feeling quickly morphing into anger, he'd demanded to know, "Afraid House is going to see us?"

"No," she'd said, tugging on his green polo shirt-covered arm, as she'd started walking down the hall. "House has been trying to get rid of me since he woke up. And while I'm sure he's interested in knowing that _you're_ here, his regular doses of Lorazepam pretty much keep his curiosity to a minimum."

As they'd sat down on puffy lounge chairs, Wilson had said irritably, "I _can't_ believe you're taking care of him."

She'd shrugged. "He needs a friend – and a doctor," she'd told him simply.

The complete _lack_ of a defense had angered him; if anyone had needed a friend, surely, it had been him – not _House_. That she had been unable to see that _fact_, or had been unwilling to accept it, had made him want to push her sympathetic hands away.

Instead he'd shot her a glare, a look that had dared her to say that he _hadn't_ needed a friend.

So she'd frowned, her blue eyes soft and apologetic. Seriously, Cuddy had offered, "If you want, I can make a call and have my assistant bring Amber's things to you."

"Trying to be my friend?" he had asked with a sneer.

Her response had been immediate, firm, "We _are_ friends." Sighing, she'd continued, "If I knew how I could… help you, I would." There was an honesty in her eyes that said she really _didn't_ know how to help him, how to be there for him.

"You could have sat with _her_ instead of him."

And that was the truth, he'd realized in that moment; there _were_ things she could be doing for him, and that was the real rub. All this time she'd spent with House could have been spent showing support for Wilson and what _he'd_ lost.

"But Amber's not Jewish," she'd said in confusion.

"I am." The two words were stark, simple, but as the guilt quickly flitting across her face, he knew it was all that needed to be said.

There'd been an awkward pause, the seconds filled with accusation on his part, apology on hers.

"Well… I am sorry," Cuddy had told him slowly, her words carefully parsed and yet still awkward somehow. "But House –"

"Let me ask you something," he'd interrupted abruptly. His forehead wrinkling so that his bushy eyebrows were visible in the top of his sight, Wilson had asked, "Are you… even _planning _on coming to her funeral?"

"When is it?" she'd asked, somehow proving the point that she didn't _really_ care about him.

"This Thursday." His heart _ached_ at the idea that… after Thursday, it would all be "officially" over; it would be the last time he saw her, and…

No, he thought, shaking his head. He couldn't deal with that right now. And shoving the thought aside, he focused on Cuddy.

Another frown. "Well…" She hesitated. "I'll try, but if –"

"Let me guess," Wilson had said, his hands rubbing at his temples. "You'll only come if _House_ is okay."

Cuddy had hesitated before admitting, "Yes."

He'd stood up then, backed away from her. The walls seemingly too small for the both of them, he'd taken several steps back. His hands in front of him defensively, his eyes dark and brooding, he'd hoped it was enough to keep her away.

It hadn't been.

She'd cautiously stood up, her heels teetering on the ground as she'd taken a step closer to him. "Wilson…"

"Do you _honestly_ think he's going to change, Cuddy?" A hand gesturing towards her, he'd asked, "Do you _really_ believe that you're going to nurse him and make him all better and he's going to turn around and _change_ and _thank you_?"

"I –"

"Because House isn't like that," he'd told her, refusing to let her disagree. "He's not going to change – he doesn't know _how_." His hands had started to shake, noticeably so, because Cuddy's wide eyes had fallen to watch the way his fingers had started to move. And seeing that it was distracting her, Wilson had clenched his hands into fists once more and shoved them into his pockets.

Trying to be as calm as he could be, he had said, "You never liked Amber. You –"

"I liked her," Cuddy had interrupted, her tones laced with a slight defense that he hadn't cared about. "She was good for you."

Wilson had chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, you're not saying that, because you actually _believe_ it. You're saying that, because she's_ dead_," he'd argued, his voice becoming strained and hitched on the last word. Much louder, he'd continued, "And you _didn't_ think she was good for me. _You_ thought that she would –"

Her eyes dangerously flashing back and forth, she'd said through gritted teeth, "Keep your voice down. We're in a _hospital._"

"You screwed up," he'd said, ignoring her. "She _didn't_ use me. She _was_ capable of thinking about someone else. And in the end, she _didn't_ leave me miserable and alone. "

She hadn't been able to look at him then; her arms folded defensively across her chest, Cuddy had turned away from him, her tongue licking her lips. Her words unspoken but definitely _not_ _unsaid_, Wilson had practically been able to hear what she was thinking: _Yes, she did_.

Immediately, he'd snapped, "_No_. That wasn't _her_," he'd nearly yelled, pointing a finger at her. Gesturing wildly with his hands, he'd told her, "That was _all_ House. _She_ died, and _he_ is the one who –"

"House didn't _kill_ her," Cuddy had argued back.

"Not exactly," he had been willing to admit. "But House put the whole thing in motion. And don't think for a second that he won't do the same to you," Wilson had warned. "You think you're going to make him better? You _won't_. You think he's going to ever think of anyone else but himself? He _won't_."

He'd taken a deep breath, holding the oxygen in until the air had burned, just as this particular knowledge had. "People can change; _she _could. You and I _are. He_ can't. And you can deny that all you want, but it's true, and when he takes everything away from you, _ruins_ everything that _matters_, you'll know I'm right."

Nothing else had been said; nothing else had _needed_ to be said. Because at some point, Cuddy _would_ realize that he had been right, that this _was_ the way House worked.

As Wilson had walked away, he'd only been able to hope that she accepted the truth before it was too late…

"That's it?" House asked unimpressed.

Cameron frowned. "What do you mean 'that's it'?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You tell a story – there should be mud wrestling or –"

"This is a hospital, House," she explained snottily. "Where would they get the mud?"

"I stand corrected. You tell a story," he repeated. "There should be cafeteria Jell-O wrestling or… the gravy-they-put-on-the-Salisbury-steak wrestling."

"That's disgusting," Cameron replied, her nose wrinkling at the idea. As an afterthought, she added, big eyes trained on him for some sort of reaction, "I just thought you'd like to know that –"

"That Wilson and Cuddy are fighting?" he asked. "It _is_ intriguing," he told her sarcastically.

"That your best friend _hates_ you," she finished. "_Yeah_, I thought you might like to know."

"He doesn't hate me." The words sounded confident, convinced, thankfully, but inside, House couldn't have believed himself less.

"You should apologize before he's gone for good."

If he believed there were any truth in her words, he refused to think about it in that moment. Too exhausted to think about what he'd done, too annoyed with overbearing women surrounding him, House gave into the comfort that acerbity offered. "Hmm, well, I'm too sick to grovel… think a singing telegram will work or is that too old-fashioned?"

In a falsely cheery tone, Cameron informed him, "Your feeding tube is working. And now _I_ am going to go do my job."

"You're not going to help me find a rhyme for 'Amantadine?'" he asked in mock betrayal.

"You should rest," she told him simply, as she stepped away from him.

His "That doesn't rhyme" was swallowed up by the sound of the door shutting behind her. And he was left alone once more, with only his thoughts and her story to keep him company.

He didn't like it.

While House was stewing by himself, Cuddy was in the process of screwing Foreman over. At least that was clearly what Foreman was thinking.

Not that _she_ particularly cared.

"I'm not letting you take a case on your own," she told him firmly as she stood up from her desk.

Stacking all the files she'd spent the last hour working on, she barely listened to his response. "Why not?" Foreman asked. "We can handle this case."

"You have three colleagues who have been doing this less than –"

"And I've been doing this for a couple _years_ now," he persisted. "I even had my _own_ team."

As she added her signature to one last file, Cuddy pointed out, "You still ended up back _here_. Under House."

"Not by choice." Though she didn't look at him, she could tell, just by the tone of his voice, that he was affronted by that fact.

And, unwilling to soothe his sore ego, Cuddy simply picked up the files and walked past him. Refusing to look back, she understood he was going to follow her; the sound of his dull footsteps hitting her ears only seconds later, she told him, "I would give you the case, but we _both _know that, as soon as you can't figure something out, you'll run to House."

She handed the files to her assistant before turning to look at Foreman. With a sincere seriousness, she explained, "That can't happen."

"So… it won't."

"_Right_," she replied sarcastically. "I know how this works, how it's _going_ to work: you four will try to diagnose the patient. And you'll have lots of fun doing it," she said condescendingly, as though talking to a child about playing with blocks. "But as soon as something goes wrong, it'll stop being fun, and you'll go _running_ to House to fix it. And I'm telling you _that_ can't happen."

He rolled his eyes but still followed her as she headed towards the elevator. "Even if that did happen," he conceded. "Is that really such a bad thing? It's House's job, and he _needs_ to do it."

They both stepped onto the elevator, and as the doors closed, she told him grimly, "What he _needs_ is to recover. He _needs_ to heal. You wouldn't be giving him what he _needs_ but what he's _addicted_ to. And if you take a case and bring it to him, he won't rest until the puzzle's been solved." Frowning, Cuddy apologized. "I'm sorry, Dr. Foreman. But I just can't let you –"

"Patient has sudden kidney failure with heart and lung complications. Not to mention a bleeding problem."

"Transfer him to another –"

"He's not going to survive the transport," Foreman told her. "You either let us take the case or you let him die."

He went silent then, in a way so dramatic that it was obvious he wanted her to feel guilty.

… Which she did (of course).

Sighing, she caved. "Fine." As soon as she saw his smirk, however, Cuddy added a caveat. "But if House finds out about this…"

"I get it," Foreman said. "It'll be on my head."

The elevator doors opened, and she turned to him, a smile devoid of all warmth gracing her features. "Then good luck."

Noting that he was no longer following her, Cuddy eagerly returned to House, who couldn't have looked less pleased to see her. Which only made _her_ feel increasingly irritated.

_Nobody_ seemed to appreciate what she was doing.

But thinking about it for a second longer, she realized it could be worse. _So much_ worse, and as long as she was alive, and the people she cared about were alive, she shouldn't complain.

Calmer now, she closed the door behind her. Softly, Cuddy asked him, "How are you feeling?"

His lips curling into a sneer, he didn't answer. "We had a deal," he hissed. "_Why_ are you _back_?"

She sat down next to him with a shrug. "I promised to leave, and I did. I didn't say I wouldn't come back."

"Clever," House replied, mulling her response over in his head. "But you should realize you're not the only one who can play that game."

There was barely any time for his words to set in, only a few seconds for her to think about what he was saying and realize what he was going to do. If anything, she moved on instinct, her body somehow knowing on its own that he was going to yank the tube out.

Rushing forward as fast as her heels would allow her, Cuddy snatched his hands roughly in hers. His fingers just beginning to touch the feeding tube, she was just in time to stop him. And though he tried to fight her, tried to yank himself away from her grip, she was too strong; his injuries and sudden weight loss had made him too weak by comparison, and she was grateful for the advantage.

But, of course, House wasn't about to give up. "Let go of me," he snarled, pulling as hard as he could.

The sudden, unexpected motion pulled her off her feet, her toes being smashed against the pointed fronts of her heels. Her knees crashing against the metal frame of the bed, Cuddy instinctively dug her nails into his hands to hold on. "Stop it," she snapped, struggling to avoid falling onto him.

"Let me _go_, and I _will._" But a quick glance at his steely eyes told her that she couldn't even begin to trust what he was saying.

If she let go, the tube would _definitely_ be out.

"Stop acting like a _child_," she hissed. "And I'll let you go, you idiot."

"No," he argued back.

And without any sort of truce, the two continued to push and pull like little children, she thought, in an arm wrestling match. The minutes ticking by slowly, the two tugging at one another angrily, Cuddy could feel her muscles tiring. And she couldn't help but wonder just how long it would take _him_ to recover from the effort.

But when House managed to snake his thumb and index finger around to the flesh of the back of her hand, her concern disappeared. Tweaking her skin, he pinched _hard_.

A squeak escaped her lips as Cuddy instinctively pulled her hand away from him. "That _hurt_, _ass_," she began to say.

But the words died on her lips, as she watched him use his free fingers to curl around the feeding tube once more.

Without thought, she reacted by slapping his hand – just as hard as he had pinched her – away. The sound of skin against skin rang out in the room, above the dull thrum of the pump. The snap quickly dying gave way to their arrhythmic noises of their heavy breathing.

Both seemingly giving up the fight, at least for the moment, Cuddy sat down on the bed. Their eyes bright and angry, they glared at one another – seemingly convinced that, if they were to look away, the other would do something.

Uncomfortable silence following, it was only when she reached down to turn off the NG tube's pump that it was broken. "Well, congratulations," she muttered, noting the look of relief on his face the moment she hit the off button.

"You're taking it out?" House asked tiredly, one of his hands lazily tugging at his right ear.

"_No_. But since you can't act like a big boy, _I_ have to make sure that you won't aspirate."

Rubbing the back of his hand against his stubbly cheek, he mentioned, "You make it sound as though you're _stuck_ here. Which is funny, because I don't recall _ever_ asking you to _stay._"

She rolled her eyes. "I would just like you to realize that I'm trying to _help_ you. And every time you _fight_ me, _you_ make things _worse_ for _yourself_," she explained didactically. "Which is funny, because when you do that, you are pretty much _guaranteeing_ that you'll be stuck with _me_ _longer_." She reached for the chart at the end of his bed and wrote in it the request for _another_ X-ray. At this rate, she joked to herself, he'd have radiation poisoning by the time he was released.

"I'll keep that in mind," House said with a sneer.

His words effectively ended the conversation, any retort she had dying on her lips when she saw his eyes close.

As she watched him slowly fall back to sleep, Cuddy couldn't help but think back to her conversation with Wilson a few days earlier. In all honesty, she'd tried her hardest since he'd walked away from her to forget what he'd said. Because, as much as she _didn't_ believe House was… beyond hope, part of her worried that he never would accept her help.

She feared it.

And more than anything, if there _were_ hope for him, she worried what the cost would be. After all, deciding to be here had already cost her Wilson, and Cuddy doubted that would be _all_ she'd – _they'd_ – lose.

But as she sat back down next to House's bedside, she realized… that, as much as she wished she could also be there for Wilson, she _didn't_ regret being here. Her own exhausted eyes closing, she understood that, as problematic as it was, she _had_ made the right choice.

And both House _and_ Wilson were just going to have to accept the choice she'd made.

Smirking to herself as she began to fall asleep, Cuddy mused that at least they still had that much – their disgust for _her_ – in common.

_End (5/15)_


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Notes: Thanks to Queen S of Randomness 016, Jill, and lhoma320 for the reviews. Also thank you to my beta for all of her help. I apologize for the wait for this chapter, but I'm trying to do two multi-chaptered fics at the same time, and that's a lot of work. However, I will try to update sooner.

Disclaimer: The characters and show aren't mine.

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Six: Put out to Pasture  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Every action has an equal and opposite reaction." – Newton's Third Law of Motion_

He was losing his mind slowly… quickly – he didn't really know; days, however many there had been, had become inconsequential. After all, it didn't matter when Thursday happened, because what he did on Thursday was what he was going to be doing on Friday and Saturday and so on. Sleeping, fighting with Cuddy, fighting with his own mind and body _not_ to react when she touched him, _cared_ for him – he did the same thing every day. So much so that it was impossible to tell where in the week they were – or even what time of day it was.

Whether that was the result of having a seizure or being in the hospital for so long, House didn't know that either. The former option made sense to his rational side, of course. But somehow he suspected it was the latter, the lack of windows and the way everything stayed the same, that blurred time.

His mind angrily, uncontrollably, shifting away from the topic at hand, he thought the reason didn't matter.

None of it mattered.

An overwhelming sense of defeat spread quickly within him. The poison infusing with his marrow in the exact same way it had since he'd woken up, this too had become part of his unroutine routine. As much as he didn't want it to be the case, he couldn't stop it; it just happened. And so the fact was when he wasn't confused, when he wasn't feeling a palpable and inexplicable rage, House had _this_ – a conviction that nothing mattered much less got better.

And here it was now, that side of him reasserting itself for _no_ reason.

Which was truly the frustrating part. His continually fluxuating emotions, as defined and strong as they were, might have been bearable _if_ they could be predicted. Even if none of it could be prevented, he thought, it would have been nice to know when, exactly, his emotions were going to bubble over. Because at least then, House himself wouldn't be surprised when he snapped angrily at Cuddy or had to close his eyes to hold back the hot tears that threatened to fall.

Well…

In all honesty, he didn't care about yelling at her; she was being so… overprotective and irritating that, even if his emotions were under his control, he'd be shouting. And, although his post-seizure state had him practically _snarling_ at her for hours on end, House refused to feel guilty about that. Because Cuddy had had every opportunity to leave, and she hadn't yet. So any misery she felt was, technically, her own fault, he decided.

And in a way, he supposed the sudden overwhelming bouts of sadness he had were his own fault as well. He'd gotten drunk and on the bus, and _he'd_ killed Amber and messed around with his already injured brain – among other things. Karmic retribution made sense on a small scale, could explain why he had no control over his own feelings anymore.

But it couldn't explain everything, could not justify why people as good as Wilson and Amber had been doomed to suffer or why other people who should have suffered did not. It explained him, House realized, but nobody else, and that made it absolutely useless as a cause.

His agitation once more giving away to defeat, he pressed the back of his head into his pillow as hard as he could. Stretching his back, he tried to focus on the soreness radiating along his spine and not the bizarre mix of emotions coursing through his body.

There were harder tasks, he realized almost immediately. Thanks to the incredibly annoying feeding tube and an even more annoying Cuddy, he'd had to keep his head inclined. The forty-five degree angle uncomfortable, the hiss of the pump grating, sleep was pretty much out of the question. Would have continued to be out the question had Nurse Ratched not agreed to turn the damn thing off every couple of hours after he'd started to gain the weight back.

Of course, House thought as he glanced over at Cuddy, every concession had a price; that law of the universe hadn't changed.

And in this particular case, the cost had been agreeing to do all the paperwork Cameron hadn't stumbled across. In total, tidying up two months' worth of files, which had been stored unceremoniously behind Wilson's balcony plants (in the hopes that they would be destroyed, forgotten, etc), was to be the price paid. And, although Cuddy had been the one to suggest it, House had agreed easily to do it. For two, no, three reasons.

The least important for him was, of course, the fact that it needed to be done at some point and that, by doing it now, Cuddy would get off his back. Actually, House thought immediately, mentally correcting himself, that didn't count as a reason, would never count as one. Because he _didn't_ care if his patients' files became mulch for Wilson's ficus, and House had already become accustomed to his boss' wary and weary eyes constantly on him.

So that brought him back down to… two reasons, he thought slowly, his mind quickly tiring and wishing for sleep. And that was the first reason: his own inability to recall vital information about past patients and to stay awake long enough to relay it to Cuddy meant that _she_ did most of the work. A mangled memory mentioned here and there – just enough knowledge to get her writing – was all it took for her to leave him alone. And though that only lasted for five, maybe ten minutes, it was plenty of time for his exhausted body to fall asleep. His eyes easily fluttering shut, Cuddy wouldn't have been able to wake him even if she tried.

Not that she would.

As interested as she undoubtedly was in getting him to complete these files, she was too weak to push him. Too concerned for his health to demand his attention, she was easy to take advantage of.

And that was the other reason: Cuddy could be manipulated, which meant he would hardly have to do anything to get the pump turned off for an hour or two. Which, sadly, _did_ feel like a victory for him these days.

His sights were small, he lamented. No longer hoping to cure Amber or any patient for that matter, House found himself only concerned with trivial things that shouldn't have mattered. That _didn't_ matter compared to losing Wilson or Wilson losing his girlfriend.

And yet, all of the banalities in House's life seemed to consume him. The feeding tube, the light in the room, the way the sheets were folded – all of it had to be a certain way. His preoccupation at first cloaked by a desire to irritate Cuddy, he now realized that… that wasn't the case.

He really _did_ want his surroundings to look, sound, and feel a particular way – dim, quiet, and soft. For a while he'd also demanded warmth, but as his fever diminished so did his pervasive chill. Which had him briefly entertain the idea that this was merely a product of his injured and overtaxed brain.

And maybe it was – he didn't know. But the one thing House was absolutely convinced of was that… even if it was the result of his physical health, it was still _horrible_. It still sucked and still made him feel insanely ill at ease. Because, if everything needed to be perfect in order for him to feel comfortable, and it never was _perfect_, then there was only misery left for him.

Or maybe there was more for him than that. Because House was sure that, along with the melancholy, was the awareness that needing things to be _just so_ was ridiculous. Likening himself to little more than a child requiring a certain nighttime routine in order to sleep in the dark, he felt _completely_ inadequate for being this way. Or rather, for being unable to _stop_ himself from acting this way.

For being unable to change or unable, in the very least, to return to the slightly less temperamental person he'd been before the accident.

The reproachful sentiment making his ears pound, it only served to renew that bond between House and the few true companions he'd had since he'd woken after the brain stimulation: defeat, shame, self-loathing. His stomach acid churning violently inside of him, he had to swallow hard to keep it back.

And determined to not think about _that_ anymore, House focused his attention on Cuddy. Ignoring the acrid taste of bile, he watched her carefully, taking in each detail as a way to distract himself. She sat in the mauve recliner at the foot of his bed, which wasn't all that surprising, considering she'd barely left the chair since he'd woken up.

Her short legs, encased in black pants, were crossed Indian style so that she could use her thighs as a desk. Frankly, House had _many_, much more _useful_ suggestions as to how she could utilize that part of her body. But from his point of view, he supposed the tight bundles of muscle got the job done well enough. Her dark hair lightly blocking part of her face, he could still see her eyes – and the way they seemed to narrow every time she had to scratch out a piece of information in the chart.

Even to his hazy mind, Cuddy was easy to read… much easier than, say, her handwriting had to be at this point. And there was a comfort in that, in knowing that, despite everything that had happened, there was at least one of them that was relatively the same.

House had not, of course, forgotten what Cameron had said.

Her words plagued him more than he would have liked, bothered him more than anything said by someone with hooker hair should have. Especially when she'd been looking for a reaction from him, House didn't want to give her one, didn't _want_ it to affect him. But the fact was his friends… or the person who had been his friend and his current best approximation of a friend were fighting. Were arguing with one another because of him, and that _did_ affect House… more than he even wanted to think about.

_Cuddy_, on the other hand, he thought, turning away from that unpleasant conversation, seemed essentially the same. She still became frustrated when she made spelling errors in charts and still insisted that he at least go through the motions of keeping his patients' files orderly.

So too did she still dress herself according to his own health. Okay, that might not have been exactly true; he'd grant anyone that. But he couldn't help but notice how, when he was injured, her necklines became higher and higher. When he'd stuck the knife in the wall socket, she'd worn a turtleneck, the same sweater she'd worn after the deep brain stimulation had placed him in a coma. And, given that it was currently nearing the end of May (he thought), sweaters didn't exactly make sense.

At least today, her sex appeal was tepid, her shirt slightly lower than it had been as of late. But the peach sweater she was wearing was hardly worth the attention he was giving it.

Then again, very little of what he focused on these past days was actually worth bestowing any attention on.

And once again, unbidden, the metaphor popped into his head. The comparison between himself and a helpless child too powerful to ignore, he couldn't help but see the similarities and silently wish for his body to cooperate and _heal_ so that the metaphor would stop making sense.

But as the seconds ticked by and he showed no sign of miraculous improvement, the likeness only seemed to grow until it was impossible to tell which one was more pathetic – himself or the child.

Looking up at him suddenly, Cuddy unknowingly answered the question at hand. Her voice mildly condescending, she told him, "If you would just _do_ this when the cases came to you, it wouldn't be a problem." As she placed another file at the foot of the chair, she continued, "If you could just… be a _big boy_ and stop refusing to do things simply because _Mommy_ told you to, that'd be _so_ much easier."

She pouted mockingly at him, as she returned back to the work at hand. A sigh escaping her lips, it would have been obvious to anyone that she was irritated with him. And, as grateful as House was that she was no longer acting like a drone around him, he was _not_ particularly happy about her words. Because they only confirmed what he suspected:

He was worse than a helpless child, definitely worse than that in _her_ eyes.

And maybe even in his own, because at least a little kid had _hope_ to become something more.

But what did he have, exactly?

A body that was feeble at best, a mind that was just as battered and bruised as the rest of him? Emotions that he could no longer control, and a friend that probably hated him, and a boss that didn't want to deal with him? He had those things, but it didn't seem like much. He had that much, but there was no hope for him, no real chance for things to get any better.

If anything, his life's progression had shown… it would only get worse for him. Three years ago, Stacy had come back into his life to ask him to save her _husband's_ life. The year after that, House had been shot, giving him a painfully brief opportunity to remember what being pain-free was like. Soon after, he'd almost been sent to jail, had _definitely_ driven his fellows away by his general inability to be something other than an ass.

And apparently he couldn't learn from his mistakes, because here he was, a year later, guilty of doing the exact same thing to Wilson.

Or no… it hadn't been the _exact_ same action; that was an oversimplification, House realized almost immediately. Because, yes, he'd driven Foreman, Cameron, and Chase away, and _yes_, it had hurt, even if House had never contemplated that fact for too long.

But it wasn't the same.

When he'd fired Chase, House had been ready for that. Obviously he'd been prepared for it, because if House hadn't been, he wouldn't have done it. And although he hadn't had any control over what Foreman or Cameron had done, House had been okay with their decisions to leave. Neither had been particularly ready in his mind, but he'd let them leave, if only so that they would prove his suspicions – that they still needed him – right.

But Wilson divesting himself was completely different.

Because, unlike before, House had been unprepared for it.

As often as he talked about all relationships being conditional, his foresight only worked so well. As smart as he was, as much as he could anticipate certain things, it was impossible to know always what those conditions would be and when they would arise. And when it came to his friendship with Wilson, House had… well, he'd suspected that his own selfishness would eventually drive them apart. In some ways, it already had, even though Wilson tried to hide it, and House tried to ignore it. And he'd also believed for a time that Wilson dating Amber would change things irrevocably.

But not to _this_ extent.

Not to the point where Cuddy would be the closest thing he had to a friend.

Not to the point where Wilson would turn away from him and deny the sacrifice House had made _for_ his best friend.

Which was really the most painful part of all. Beyond being responsible for Amber's death, aside from the fact that he was _still_ in the hospital – it was knowing that only his failures counted in this that burned. It was knowing that none of his efforts to save Wilson's girlfriend or to make things right mattered to his best friend that made him feel the sting of defeat as tangibly as the ache in his thigh.

It was knowing that he'd _tried_ to be a good friend, to _keep_ Wilson near to no avail, that had him feeling as though there was no point at all to any of it. Especially when House had worked so hard to _avoid_ pain, to _avoid_ betrayal, fighting the realities of life seemed particularly futile.

So he wasn't going to do it anymore.

He was no longer going to pretend that friendship had an upside, that the joys of having a companion outweighed the pain of losing them. He was no longer going to try to… deny the truth. Because pretending like that reality didn't exist did _not_ exempt him from pain – _at all_.

It just left him blind sighted and empty handed.

So he was done, he thought with finality.

Closing his weary eyes once more, House tried to ignore the inexplicable tightness his decision created in his chest. A heavy emptiness pressed forcefully against his breastbone. The feeling too powerful to deny, it was physical proof that he wasn't going to be able to pretend Wilson's _abandonment_ didn't matter.

And with that thought in mind, House realized that he'd probably never be able to completely close himself off from the rest of the world. Because, as he opened his eyes once more, he found himself instinctively searching for Cuddy; and when he noticed that the chair was empty and felt the palpable disappointment course through him, he understood:

He'd never be able to escape something that some part of him still wanted.

Feeling the self-loathing claw at his belly, House once more searched for Cuddy. If only to distract himself by annoying her, he wanted her near. But she wasn't in the room anymore.

And just as he was beginning to wonder where she went and why he hadn't _noticed_ that she left, his eyes darted to the right. His gaze slightly unfocused, he could just barely make out the two people standing outside of his hospital room. Their forms slightly fuzzy around the edges to him, he went with memory in discerning that it was Cuddy and Foreman.

They faced one another, Foreman's taller, larger body making her look impossibly tinier. Her hands on her hips, she looked irritated – much in the same way she looked when she was annoyed with House himself. And as he watched Foreman argue with her, House knew he'd been wrong.

In this situation, he was not the child despite the infantilization going on here. Cuddy might have been playing Mommy, but she didn't see him as her baby _at all_.

Because he was not the child but the old man, the one who could and _was_ being replaced.

By _Foreman_.

In the back of his mind, House could understand how an outside might think he was jumping to conclusions. And truthfully, he might have agreed with that assessment had he not known Cuddy.

But he _did_ know her, knew that she was nothing if not efficient. She liked things to be in their proper place, liked it when departments ran smoothly. And obviously her diagnostics department couldn't do that if its _head_ was stuck in a hospital bed potentially losing his mind.

Or maybe Cuddy had just assumed that he already _had_ lost his brilliance and as a result his place in the world. Maybe that wasn't such an assumption, he realized, given his own inability to do much of anything. He couldn't wipe his own ass, much less solve a case. He couldn't distract himself from the way she folded the blankets on his body, much less focus on the patterns.

So why should she believe that any of it would ever go back to the way things were?

He hadn't earned her loyalty; in fact, given his behavior since the deep brain stimulation, he'd pretty much garnered the exact opposite of that. He'd treated her like crap, had made the most insensitive and demeaning remarks for reasons he couldn't understand.

So really… Cuddy had every reason to do whatever the hell she wanted.

Which in this case apparently meant giving Foreman whatever the hell he wanted, regardless of whether or not his abilities actually _merited_ that kind of responsibility, House thought bitterly.

Feeling dissatisfied, he shifted around on the hospital bed. Each movement slight but still powerful enough to cause him to ache, the comparison between himself and an old man seemed too appropriate to ignore.

And it hit him then: maybe she was doing exactly what the board had prayed for her to do for _years._

Maybe Foreman was his _permanent_ replacement.

It would make sense, given Cuddy's inexplicable fondness for the younger man _and_ Foreman's ability to at least present himself as a well-adjusted member of society. And if the metaphor were truly being applied to House's own life, then it would only make sense to transfer Grandpa to the nursing home where he could spend his days drooling and crapping his pants away from all the real doctors.

The sarcasm of the thought biting, he tried to find comfort in the humor he'd so often relied upon. But, knowing that, in this case, he himself was the old man, the words rang hollow within him. And yet, still had the power to reverberate inside of his mind, the echoes inside of him powerful and immediate.

He was in pain, his thigh tight and hot and throbbing. His ears pounded with a note that neared C10 and the end of his hearing spectrum; the noise _in his head_ so irritating, he thought that if it were actually real, he would have gladly deafened himself to make it stop. His mind rattled from the strong pulse of a migraine, and, though his stitches had been removed, the place where the thread had been itched and stung simultaneously.

Bile burned in the back of his throat, and he clenched his fists as hard as he could to keep himself from getting sick. His unkempt fingernails creating deep groves in the lined plains of his palms, he willed his body to cooperate.

But this, just like everything else it seemed, wasn't enough. His stomach clenched painfully, violently, his nausea suddenly, quickly, overwhelming his senses.

Scrambling to raise his head, House managed to prop himself up on his elbows before hurling. His insides lurching ferociously, he threw up in a steady stream of orange. Within seconds the grey and light blue sheets underneath him were covered by the barely digested tube nutrition. What could only be described as slop sloshed onto his thighs before oozing outwards along the thick knit of the blankets.

The last bits of vomit lazily dribbling down his chin, he gasped for air. Collapsing back against the bed, House breathed in short spurts. His entire body aching and sweating, his eyes tearing, he was too focused on being _replaced_ by _Foreman_ to care about the barf in his lap.

Replaced by _Foreman_, his mind repeated, taunting him. Disgust welling within him that had absolutely nothing to do with the barf covering him, he felt the hot tears sliding down his cheeks. His head lightly moving back and forth, he frowned, _horrified_ by what was happening.

He was crying.

_Crying_.

Not in the refrained, understated, single tear kind of way that he occasionally indulged in when he was hallucinating or telling his best friend that Amber would die; this wasn't like that at all.

This was unrestrained, _messy_ – his hands and lips shaking, snot trickling down along his lips. This was loud and pointless and absolutely the last thing he wanted. But the more he tried to resist, tried to calm himself down, the worse it seemed to get.

For each silent, chastising word came an audible sob. The sound only slightly muffled by his throat, there was no stopping it. Nor was there any chance of him hiding what he was doing either. Which might have been fine in theory, provided that he stayed in this room all by himself. But when Cuddy slid the door to the hospital room open once more and walked in and _saw_ him, House wished he had never woken up from his coma.

Her brow immediately furrowing in concern, she gently asked, "House?" Her voice was soft, the typically harsh sounding word made smooth by her apprehension. But if it had been her intention to somehow make him feel better or make him voice the betrayal he felt so keenly, she'd failed. Would continue to fail, because he had _no_ intention of giving her any more information than _this_ display already had.

His watery gaze still on her, he watched as she, her nose screwing up slightly, took a step closer toward him. Noticing the vomit covering the bed and his body, Cuddy frowned, a quiet "Oh" escaping her lips. Unaccusingly, she asked, "What happened?" Uttered in the same voice she might have used to ask a child in the clinic how he had burned his hand, the question only served to intensify House's feelings.

He was so _useless_, completely incapable now of doing anything other than spreading misery. As he continued to confound Cuddy with his tears, House recognized how true that was, how true his assessment of himself was. He couldn't get it right any longer, couldn't even _heal_ his physical wounds properly.

And it was that fact that made his gaze turn steely and his heart burn with anger. As stupid as it was to be _crying_, as utterly ridiculous as the whole display was, it was knowing that this meant Cuddy wouldn't release him now that made him furious with himself. His attitude towards useless displays of emotion aside, he could have lived with himself for doing this if it weren't going to directly contribute to how long he'd have to stay in the hospital.

But the fact was the crying and puking would be the only reasons Cuddy needed for keeping him here longer. For keeping him under her watch longer.

Apparently, she still had delusions that she could handle Grandpa's Alzheimer's on her own.

Bitter and filled with shame, he watched, trying to find some distance between the two of them, as she quickly moved closer to him. Her hands curling around the edges of the dirty sheets, she pulled them back in one swift motion. Just careful enough to not get the regurgitated "food" everywhere, she piled the linens up by his feet.

The cool air on his heated legs was a welcome change; one of her hands working the remote to raise his bed, the other prodding his injured thigh was _not_. Would _never_ be, he thought, trying to find the words and energy to push her away. The heel of her hand pushing his hospital gown out of the way as she went, her nimble fingers slid along the raised scar. Touching the area, as though his leg would somehow explain his tears, Cuddy asked, "Are you in pain? Is it your thigh?"

He did not answer.

Not for a lack of wanting to respond; his sharp retort, "No, I _love_ being poked," was ready to be aimed and hurled at her. But the words died inside of him. His own body too weak, needy, and unraveled, there was no room for anger or harshness, no energy within to direct it toward her anyway.

Her cold hand leaving his thigh, she went for his skull next. Fingers drifting from his temples through the graying strands of hair on the right side of his head, Cuddy searched for an answer there that she could not possibly find; she was looking for an explanation, for a physical manifestation of what was producing _this_, but House knew she wouldn't find anything. Because what was wrong with him was deeper than his skin, further down than bone and muscle, locked away in places far less accessible than his temporal lobe.

But naturally, Cuddy remained unconvinced of this. Her cool fingers raked through his hair, her feather-light touch slightly tickling his scalp. And in the back of his mind, he thought he should have been annoyed by her conviction that there was something _physically_ wrong.

Then again, maybe he _was_ annoyed; his emotions seemingly belonging to someone or something else, he could no longer tell what exactly he was feeling, much less control it. But then _again_, with that thought in his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if there _was_ something physically wrong… beyond the obvious. Although it was, perhaps, the _obvious_ problems that caused all of this.

His thoughts meandering and turning around in oblongs, House could feel his concentration waning. Trying to focus on what was going on, he could tell it wasn't working; his confusion beginning to overwhelm him, it was sensory overload. Her hand in his hair, the sheets tickling the bottoms of his feet, the smell of vomit in the air – it was too much.

But as much as his mind screamed for him to pull away, to _get_ away, House found his body doing the opposite. Without even realizing it had happened, he suddenly discovered himself leaning _into_ Cuddy's touch. His head barely shifting, the movement was slight but still enough for her to notice.

The frown on her face becoming more pronounced, she murmured in a low voice, "House…" There was no admonishment in her tone, no anger or disappointment, just a final sense of understanding something he couldn't even begin to name.

Her eyes a soft faded blue, like the color jeans became after being washed too often, she offered him a sympathetic smile. And with a nod of her head, Cuddy pulled her hand away from him.

The sudden loss of contact was not entirely unexpected, nor unwelcome… for the most part.

Not that he would _ever_ admit to it, but in that brief moment where the medicine had faded into something _natural_, he had not hated the shift. He had not completely despised her touching him.

And yet…

That brief flicker of contentment was promptly extinguished, as she said, "Lets get you cleaned up." Because once more, unbidden, the image of the old man came to mind, would more than likely haunt him for months to come – depending on how any of this ended.

And was there really any doubt how this experience was going to conclude, now that _Foreman_ was getting cases on his _own_?

No.

House _knew_ how this was going to end; there was no doubt in his mind. He would lose _this_, the last thing he had tethering him to his sanity, just as he had lost Wilson.

His lips instinctively turned downward into a deep frown, his thoughts draining what little hope he'd had left.

The very slight shift in his features apparently noticeable, Cuddy offered him another reassuring smile. Turning away from him, she quickly searched through one of the drawers closest to her, grabbing the syringe and pair of latex gloves she would need.

And as she flushed his NG tube with saline solution, she encouraged, "Cheer up. You're getting what you wanted," she told him, her voice sounding only slightly peeved at this turn of events.

Her hands curled around the feeding tube, her fingers deftly doubling the plastic over itself. "The tube has to come out. Hold your breath."

He didn't bother to comply immediately; his exhausted mind was too bitter to pay attention to what she wanted or to assist her in doing what _he'd_ been demanding since Cameron had put the tube in.

So she repeated more firmly, "House. Hold your breath. Now."

Almost begrudgingly, then, he finally did what she wanted. Her hands slowly pulling at the tube, he mused to himself how, even within the last hour, so much had changed. Because an hour ago, he would have been _thrilled_ to have this happening, would have spent this time making fun of Cuddy. _Yes_, his moods had been unpredictable, but there was _no way_ House would have been _crying_. But then, _an hour ago_, he couldn't have predicted that _this_ would happen, that Cuddy would be so willing to toss him overboard for a second-rate doctor at best.

His barely explicated sadness quickly funneling into fury, House glared at her, as she pulled the tube out the rest of the way. He hated her then, _hated_ how she _always_ made decisions like this. Her mind always looking for neat little solutions with pretty bows on top, she'd never been all that concerned with curing people, he told himself. She'd never cared about his _actual_ abilities but how she could _market_ him. How she could make money off her precious little resource.

And now that that was gone, damaged more than likely beyond repair, she was chucking him out with all of the other used goods.

That thought turning in his mind, he could feel the disgust coursing through him.

He hated her.

Loathed her so much in that moment that he was tempted to hurl every insult he could at her, tempted to shout and scream, kick and bite until she _admitted_ to what she'd done.

But the feeble old man metaphor still holding true, he didn't have the energy for it. He didn't even have enough reserves within him to throw the tissue she offered him seconds later back at her. In fact, the best he had to offer was a pointed glance when Cuddy told him, "Blow your nose."

She, on the other hand, had plenty of strength left and seemed determined to expend it by taking care of her former favorite pet. "Fine," she murmured with a sigh. Her no longer gloved fingers snatching the Kleenex off of his lap, she held it to his nose.

Of course, he would have enough energy to be conscious for _this_, he snarled to himself. Of course, Amber would die with her dignity and her goodness while _he_ would get the privilege of watching both of those things gradually, suddenly – whatever – slip away.

Gritting his teeth, House tried to pretend that he did not notice his _boss_ wiping his nose as though he were little more than a wayward, sniveling toddler. But that was an impossible task, his mind, like the rest of him, out of his control and quickly becoming an enemy he could not combat.

Her body moving temporarily out of his line of sight then, House hoped that she was done. Hoped, despite knowing that the chances of his nightmare being over were slim, that she was leaving him alone.

But instead, seconds later, she returned with a plastic cup in her hand. "It's water," Cuddy informed him slowly. "You should drink it to wash the taste out of your…" Her soft voice trailed off as he barely, deliriously shook his head in refusal. His eyes feeling like marbles rolling around in an empty jar, House tiredly tried to listen to her say, "I know you don't mean that House."

Moving back towards his side, she held the cup to his closed lips and waited. "I know you don't want the taste of _vomit_ in your mouth," she said, her tone becoming increasingly strained.

Once more he shook his head, and _finally_ finding his voice, he forced a word out. "_No._"

"Don't do this," she implored quietly. Pressing the lip of the cup against his own, she told him, "Please. Just take a sip."

But he refused.

Not for reasons that he entirely understood. Whether it was just to annoy the crap out of Cuddy or to feel in control of _something_, even if it was this trivial, he didn't know. He didn't particularly care about the reason either, despite the fact that his mouth tasted uncomfortably sour. If anything, it was as bitter as the rest of him felt. And truthfully, a sip of water didn't sound all that bad to him.

But still he refused.

Whatever the reason, he decided to give into it… much to Cuddy's dismay.

"Fine," she said suddenly, her voice a little louder than she probably would have liked. Setting the cup aside, she informed him hastily, "Lets just get you clean, all right?"

"_No_."

Her response was a warning. "_House_…" One of her fingers pressing the button on his bedside remote for the nurses' station, her other hand briefly touched his forearm. "I know that this is… an impossible situation for you. I _really_ do get that, all right?" Her voice sounding steelier, Cuddy continued, "But you _cannot _act like this every step of the way. You _cannot_ keep being _this_ stubborn."

A nurse House didn't recognize entering the room, Cuddy finished, "You are going to have to accept my help."

He gave her the best eye roll he could possibly offer with exhaustion quickly grasping at him once more.

"I'm not giving up," she told him, her voice sounding more like a threat than anything else. Which was somehow appropriate, he thought.

His attention waning steadily as the linens and he were stripped, slumber protectively began to blanket his consciousness. His eyelids fluttering shut, there was only one question on House's mind: what disturbed him more – that Cuddy was refusing to cave or that he already had?

_End (6/15)_


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Notes: Thank you to Queen S of Randomness 016 for reviewing. I would agree that House is becoming increasingly stubborn as the chapters progress. As some aspects of his injuries improve, others – such as the changes to his personality – are becoming or will become more apparent. Also thank you to lhoma320 for the review. I'm really happy you liked the chapter. Your reaction was exactly the one I was going for, so thank you very much. Also thank you to my beta for working very diligently to get this chapter done in a timely manner.

Please read and review.

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Seven: All Roads lead to Nowhere  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_I have not yet been able to discover the cause of these properties of gravity from phenomena and I feign no hypotheses… It is enough that gravity does really exist and acts according to the laws I have explained, and that it abundantly serves to account for all the motions of celestial bodies. That one body may act upon another at a distance through a vacuum without the mediation of anything else, by and through which their action and force may be conveyed from one another, is to me so great an absurdity that, I believe, no man who has in philosophic matters a competent faculty of thinking could ever fall into it." – Sir Isaac Newton on gravity_

The office was serendipitously empty, a fact that his boss probably would have despised but Foreman relished nonetheless. Taub was off running a barrage of tests, Kutner breaking into the patient's home. Thirteen was… wherever the hell she'd wandered off to since Amber had died.

Temporarily distracting himself from the gravity of the situation, Foreman knew that if she stayed away much longer, Thirteen _would_ be fired. And part of him, the part he hated to acknowledge was real, wanted to be as big a bastard as House was and fire her for disappearing.

Wanted to _punish_ her for not being here _right now_.

He was in over his head; _they_ were _all_ in over their heads without House there to suggest new ideas and to guide them all through the process. And though he knew it to be unlikely, Foreman _wanted_ to place all the blame on Thirteen. A small voice whispering inside his mind, he wanted to believe that, if she were here, they would have had an answer by now.

Not because she was unusually brilliant or because he honestly believed that she had any answer to offer him now. But because… they were running out of time, the desire to defy Cuddy and ask House for help increasing – and the patient was going to be dead soon if someone didn't name the diagnosis in the next day or two.

_His_ own patient was going to _die_, and it would be all of his fault, Foreman realized.

Because, while he hadn't been wrong about transporting the patient to another hospital… by now, they could have called in another diagnostician to take the case.

And Foreman had told Cuddy _not_ to do that.

As he sunk lower into House's desk chair, he realized that… _this_ must have been his "thing," his flaw. Doctors like Cameron were too sympathetic to be perfect. Doctors like Chase and Cuddy were too busy trying to be liked and to get ahead to focus on the task in front of them. House was a dick, and that had its obvious issues.

And _Foreman_'s thing was that… he thought he was better than House, knew more than him.

Which was fine when it actually seemed to be true.

But then he would start pulling on his reins, believing that he, by being better than House, could take more risks, do more work than his boss could ever imagine. And that was where the trouble _always_ lay – when he bit off so much to chew that he choked and someone ended up in a coffin.

That possibility becoming too distinct in his mind to ignore, it made Foreman unusually grateful for the empty office. No one around to see his floundering, he could almost believe that, if this patient were to die, it'd happen in this silent vacuum, and everything would be okay. The stillness around him so pervasive, he could almost begin to think that no one would care, that no one would be around to judge him for it.

But the belief never quite eased the tightness in his chest, never quite erased the budding need to find House.

Blindly, Foreman reached out and grabbed the oversized tennis ball his boss so often played with. The felted sphere was weighty in his large hands, and, his brown eyes surveying it quietly, he searched for the reason House seemed to love it so much.

What was it about this stupid ball that made House so attached to it? A simple possession, a toy made for children _couldn't_ have any special powers, could _not_ solve the case by throwing out answers.

And yet, clasping the tennis ball in hand, Foreman desperately wished that it _was_ magic. Because, surely, relying on _this_ for a diagnosis was better than admitting he had no idea what the cure for his patient was; it _had_ to be better than accepting that he needed House to do this.

But, no answer coming to him, no brilliant ideas suddenly popping into his mind, Foreman could clearly see:

For all of his efforts to escape his boss…

He still needed House.

He couldn't do this alone, couldn't leave this job.

Because he wasn't ready.

The thought sinking heavily into his consciousness, Foreman could feel guilt pooling in his gut. He… was going to have to go to House or, if Cuddy stopped him, tell her that he wasn't going to be able to solve the case on his own.

She wasn't going to appreciate that, he thought grimly. But, reluctantly placing the tennis ball back on House's desk, Foreman realized he didn't exactly have any other choice. As much as he would rather pretend like he _was_ capable of taking the case, he had already experienced losing a patient over his abundant arrogance and pride.

And he couldn't do that again.

Standing up slowly, he started to move towards the door. But, if he'd anticipated hunting Cuddy down in the future, he wasn't going to have to look very far. The glass etched with House's name being yanked back, she easily stepped into the office before he even had time to register what was happening.

"How's the case going?" Cuddy asked, announcing her presence as she eased the door shut behind her. The question was an obvious attempt to sound conversational, but Foreman suspected that it was anything but that.

His posture stiffening, he responded with a nod of his head, "It's…" He paused, searching for the words that would make the situation sound at least remotely positive. "We're close to an answer; the symptoms are progressing, but we're headed in the right direction."

The woman before him nodded her head slowly in agreement, her blue eyes almost immediately imploring him to say more. The proverbial light bulb beginning to brighten in the back of his mind, Foreman wondered just how much she knew about his patient. She hadn't said anything _yet_, but that didn't mean she wasn't waiting for _him_ to admit his mistake, waiting for _him_ to say that he should have never taken the case.

But since that wasn't how she'd led the conversation, Foreman went on the assumption that she didn't know much. "How's House doing?" he asked carefully. The question in and of itself was going to garner her suspicions, no doubt. After all, for the most part, he didn't care about _House_.

And yet, if Cuddy suspected anything at all, she didn't say. Shrugging, she answered, "Fine. He's sleeping – probably release him tomorrow."

"Then he's feeling better," Foreman said, his mind eagerly seeing the opportunity before him. "So… you think I can talk to him?"

"He's resting." Her voice was firm, unyielding. Her eyes narrowing on him, she pointed out, "You said that your team was close to solving the case."

"We are," he lied. "We're _incredibly_ close – waiting for the final labs, actually." He straightened his spine and cast her an arrogant look to try to appear more convincing. "I just wanted to see how he was doing," Foreman tried to tell her, hoping to sound reassuring.

"He's resting," she repeated.

And, realizing that Cuddy wasn't going to let her anywhere near House unless she knew the truth, Foreman caved. "All right," he told her quietly, as though someone else might hear. "Things are… not progressing with the case as I would have… liked them to."

"You can't see him," she said, her arms folding across her chest.

His own voice imploring, he nearly pleaded, "If you could give me five minutes with –"

"No."

Her refusal quickly wore away at his patience. His self-control withering away until he thought that he was probably going to sound like House (if only in volume), he dropped all pretense. Going for the guilt, Foreman reminded her, "You have an _ethical_ obligation to _this_ patient. House could help her. You can't deny her his expertise if you think he could save her life."

She blinked, nonplussed at his argument. "I _don't_ think he could save her, Dr. Foreman," she told him simply.

His response was slow in coming; to be honest, he'd never imagined that Cuddy, the person who let House get away with anything and everything, would suddenly begin to think that House _couldn't_ solve a case. So either she'd randomly changed her mind for reasons Foreman couldn't understand _or_ she was lying, just to keep him out of the hospital room.

His mind quickly evaluating each option, he asked himself which one sounded more like Cuddy.

The choice was more obvious than anything he'd seen in his life.

"You're lying," he told her arrogantly. "Because you're worried that if I take the case to House, he'll get upset over not being consulted earlier."

"No," she replied immediately.

Her mouth opened to say more, but he talked over her. "It's okay. I get that you don't want to make him any more upset than he already is. So I'll just lie to him and say the case _just_ got here, and he won't know that-"

"_No_," she repeated more insistently, her voice louder than before. "I was worried about that before; that's not what I'm concerned with now."

Foreman raised an eyebrow at her. "You expect me to believe that House, who so far has shown practically _no_ adverse effects from having his heart stop, head cracked open and stimulated, has done something to make you doubt his –"

"You can't take this to him," Cuddy said emphatically, admitting in not so many words that there was something wrong.

His forehead creasing in confusion, he couldn't help but think that he had been wrong _again._ Disgust beginning to infiltrate, Foreman worked quickly to extinguish the feeling. That wouldn't help him now.

And with a sigh, he asked, "What are his symptoms?"

"That's not important," she told him. "He's my patient."

"If it's neurological –"

"He's fine," Cuddy interrupted, her words coming out a little too quickly to sound convincing. "He's just… emotional."

"'Emotional'," Foreman repeated, the word sounding odd to his ears and weird coming out of his mouth. "House… _isn't_ emotional. He's a jackass."

"Well, yes," she admitted, taking a few steps further into House's office. "Normally, I would agree. But… this past week in particular, he has been agitated and furious-"

He scoffed, the sound certainly audible to her even considering the ten feet of distance between them. "Agitated and furious is House's default position. That doesn't mean something's wrong," he told her, his own irritation increasing over the fact that he was having to explain this to a woman who should have known House better than he did. "That's… just who he is. Maybe you didn't fluff his pillows enough."

"This is different," she argued, her voice filled with irritation and a small amount of redness appearing on her cheeks. "He can't _stop_ himself, can't calm down."

"Also _normal_ when he's stressed," Foreman retorted. "Which he probably is, given that he's been cooped up in a hospital room with you for the last several days." As soon as the words had escaped his mouth, he could hear the insult contained within them.

Damn it.

She was going to be pissed.

Truthfully, he hadn't _meant_ to imply that her company was the problem – although there probably _was_ something to be said for her presence and Foreman's own current agitation. But, noting the way her gaze had slid into glare territory, he decided to keep that fact to himself.

"Look," he said, shifting his weight on his feet. "All I'm saying is –"

"I know what you're saying," Cuddy interrupted.

"But that's not what I meant" was his exasperated reply.

And just as she opened her mouth to say something, someone else began to talk instead. Thirteen's voice startling Cuddy, the younger woman said, sounding almost amused, "You mean you _didn't_ intend to tell our boss that she's miserable company?"

The door shut behind her, as she made her way into the room. Her hands were tucked underneath her lab coat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she had a calm look on her face. The entire effect, Foreman thought, made her look like someone who _hadn't_ disappeared without notice.

He started to ask where she'd been, but, with Cuddy spinning around to eviscerate the intruder, his question never left his mouth.

"Dr. Hadley," Cuddy greeted in a voice that hardly sounded friendly. "Nice to see that you weren't kidnapped."

Thirteen, silently asking him to leave, glanced over at Foreman. And honestly, if he thought his patient had a chance in hell of living on his expertise alone, he would have. But, given that he needed his colleague to brainstorm with _and_ his boss to give him approval, he stayed rooted to the spot. Much to Thirteen's dismay.

"Dr. Cuddy," she started to say. "I –"

"Doesn't matter" was Cuddy's immediate response. "Your pay's been docked. You'll owe me five hours in the clinic, _and_," she started to say, pulling a list from her the pocket of her lightly pinstriped lab coat. "If all goes well, House will be released from the hospital tomorrow," she announced, the other two doctors in the room clearly not following her; both raised an eyebrow at her.

Ignoring their confusion, she continued, "Unfortunately, his apartment is in no condition for him to return to…" Her voice trailed off as she seemingly tried to think of the exact words she wanted. With a shake of her dark curls, Cuddy merely said, "Well, lets just say it's a few steps up from 'uninhabitable.'"

Although Foreman could see, _very unfortunately_, where this was headed, Thirteen did not. Slowly she asked, "And this has to do with us… how exactly?"

Cuddy pressed the list into Thirteen's hands.

"Your job, and you're going to doing to it if you expect me to honor your contract, is to clean it up," she said brightly. Her voice laced with disgust, she told them, "Make sure he doesn't catch hepatitis the moment he steps over the threshold."

Thirteen quickly glanced down at the folded piece of paper in her hands. Her expression became increasingly grim as she read through the list. Finally, when her gaze hit the middle of the page, she looked up, visibly affronted. "I'm not doing this."

Cuddy's response was a confident "I think you will."

"You think wrong," Thirteen snapped. "I did _not_ become a doctor so that I could starch House's boxers and stock his fridge."

The older woman raised an eyebrow at what Foreman could only guess – and _hope_ – was the hyperbolic boxer comment. _God_, he really hoped there was exaggeration there; the other option was just too repulsive for him to even want to give it consideration.

"Did you become a doctor to _disappear_ for weeks at a time?" Cuddy asked irritably.

"That was –"

"Don't care," she interrupted. Cuddy took a step closer to the other woman. "The point is – you disappeared without notice. The _rest_ of your team has had to _cover_ for you. The _clinic_ has been short-staffed _twice_ because of your behavior." Her tone was accusatory, harsh, one she usually reserved for House. "You want_ cases_? Want to do things that worthy of your time?"

She gave Thirteen absolutely no time to respond. "Then you'd better start proving that you're worthy of _House's_ and this _hospital's_ time."

The conversation was apparently over then, Foreman realized. Not because anyone had caved or quit (although Thirteen looked away, remaining conspicuously silent then). But because Cuddy had _decided_ that it was over; her heels thumping on the carpet as she headed back towards the door, her hand curled around the metal handle when she spoke again. "Dr. Foreman," she announced. "You can go with her."

He blinked dumbly.

"But…" He must have heard her wrong, he thought to himself. "I have a _case_," he reminded her.

Without any warning, Cuddy informed him, "Your patient died ten minutes ago." Her words were unsympathetic and cold; once more it sounded as though she were talking to House.

But she wasn't.

This was aimed directly at Foreman _himself_.

And his patient was… dead?

Confused, he shook his head, and visibly looking startled, he asked, "What? My pat – what?"

"Taub tried to bring the case to House about fifteen minutes ago," Cuddy explained. "I caught him – he's been punished." Her voice warming slightly, she told him, "It wouldn't have mattered. Your patient went into cardiac arrest, couldn't be revived."

"But…"

His voice trailed off as realization hit him:

He'd failed.

For the past few days, he'd tried _so hard_ to solve the case, to be like House without being _like_ House. Days' worth of sleep lost and meals skipped to pursue the puzzle, Foreman had put all of his effort into this.

And he'd failed.

His widening eyes looked to Cuddy to hear her say that…

He didn't know what he wanted her to say, really.

That he hadn't heard her right? That he hadn't directly _killed_ his patient by taking the case? That he was a good doctor? That House couldn't have solved it?

Maybe all of the above, Foreman realized.

"So now there's no problem with you accompanying Thirteen to House's apartment?" Cuddy asked.

But too stunned, Foreman had no chance of answering.

And the older woman seemed to know this, a wolfish smile appearing on her face. Opening the door, she said, "Then it's settled," before walking away.

He was alone with Thirteen then, with her and wishing that she had the smarts to _leave_ the room. Because, although she had the grace to look away from him, silently taking off her lab coat and placing it on the ottoman closest to the door, it wasn't the same as actually _being_ alone. Her presence, small as it was, was enough to make Foreman feel as though he couldn't wallow in his guilt.

With her around, he was too interested in maintaining what little superiority he had over her to contemplate his guilt for too long. Childish though it was, it was all Foreman had really. Considering he was the only fellow out of the last team to _still_ be under House's thumb, Foreman understood he had to take what little power was offered to him.

And now that he hadn't solved the case, it was unlikely that he'd be allowed to take any cases again.

"You okay?" Thirteen asked finally.

He, however, decided not to answer. Posing a question of his own, he demanded to know, "Where were _you_ all this time?"

As was her fashion, she avoided the question. "Let's just get this over with, okay?" He said nothing, did nothing. Having to clean house _for_ House was bad enough; he didn't need to acknowledge that that was what was going on.

So it was Thirteen who took the first steps towards the door. "I'll get the groceries. You can search for House's drugs and porn. We'll paper, rock, scissors the rest."

"Great," he muttered, slowly following her.

The prospect of being his boss's maid looking him right in the face, Foreman could only wonder why his life's trajectory always seemed to lead right back to the same thing:

_House_.

* * *

He woke up with a start, the taste of scotch in his mouth. The liquor still clinging to his taste buds, it was almost as enveloping as the sweat-drenched suit Wilson had fallen asleep in. Wrinkled and wet, the outfit had been put on days earlier for _her_ funeral. And he could no longer remember if there'd been a reason he'd refused to take it off since then. Had he been too drunk to undo the buttons or had the idea that _this_ was the suit he'd last see Amber in persuaded him?

He really didn't know.

But Wilson was absolutely sure of a few things. He was _definitely_ sure, for instance, that scotch had its downsides.

Like the way the sun still high and bright in the sky, mixing with the liquor in his belly, made his head pound. Unbidden, the mental image of the fat marching band drummer in junior high that everyone made fun of being trapped in the confines of his brain appeared.

And that was the second thing he was absolutely sure of: scotch made him an idiot.

Which worked for him, Wilson realized. Imagining tubby little Jimmy Mullins trotting around inside of his skull was one of the funnier things he'd thought of in… it seemed like forever.

Standing up, he began to work at the knot of his tie; he needed a shower, having not had one since the morning he'd…

Since he'd buried Amber.

Easily working through the buttons on his white shirt, Wilson sighed. Plopping back down on the bed, he couldn't help but ask himself what the hell he was doing.

Since she'd died, he'd been in a tailspin, caught between wanting to cling to her memories and wanting to forget them all together. And in doing so, he'd been flitting from sobbing over each and every article of clothing that still had her scent to getting as stupidly drunk as he possibly could.

Truth be told, Wilson had never felt so disorganized and schizophrenic as he had these past weeks.

His mind never deciding what the appropriate way to grieve was, he wavered daily.

Which wasn't to say there wasn't a pattern to it. In the light of morning, when he woke up and remembered that she was no longer alive, he wanted to linger in the few moments he thought she _was_ still here. Wanting to expand those three or four minutes into hours, Wilson would, sometimes, grab her pillow and cling to it.

Breathing her scent in deeply, he would think that it was _almost_ like having her around.

Especially if he closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to run wildly enough, he could almost believe that she were right there with him.

_Almost_.

But never fully, because even with memories and fantasies to guide him along, even with his eyes closed, Wilson could not ignore what was different. The pillow was softer than Amber; her body made of muscle and sinew and damaged heart, she was strong – stronger than anything stuffed with down could be.

And even if he could smell her scent, he could not hear her voice. Her laugh – he _missed_ that rare sound – was too throaty and sexy and _loud_. Usually heard when he would pull her as close to him as the pillow was then, it was too much a part of this… _snuggling_ to _not_ think about it.

And it was this realization, the one that close approximations still weren't ever going to be close _enough_, that always pushed him towards the bottle.

His body no longer handled hard liquor as it once did. Too many cosmos with Amber and too few nights out with House now made the smell alone practically enough to have him feeling intoxicated.

Except that wasn't true, obviously. Although Wilson easily lost count, in his estimation, it usually took a handful of neat doubles to make him truly begin to feel light-headed. And then even after that, it was a bit of a ways to drunk territory. A couple shots after_ that_ and then he'd be exactly where he wanted - nearing the blissful oblivion he'd so frantically wanted.

Apparently, he thought then, he _had_ spent enough time with House.

Because Wilson would _not_ be here right now if not for his best friend. He would _not_ be grieving for the woman he loved, would _not_ be drinking his days away, would _not_ be unbathed, unkempt, un… whatever the hell he was, if not for _House_.

Instinctively reaching for the bottle still by the nightstand, Wilson thought with a mere shrug that today's drinking would start earlier than normal. Taking a long pull from the bottle, he didn't care about that fact.

Because if there was _one_ thing House had taught him, it was that, sometimes, pain needed to be buried. And _this_ was an ache that Wilson never wanted to feel sober.

He _never_ wanted to think about how she would_ never_ come back.

He _never _wanted to remember how her eyes had faded and closed for the last time.

He never, _ever_ wanted to consider how avoidable the whole thing had been.

If he'd just put House second…

The thought went unfinished, silenced by the liquor hitting the back of his throat.

Really, all Wilson wanted was to pretend that this would make him forget, that this would make the pain inside of himself somehow bearable. Wanting to pretend that doing this would take him away to a place where everything was good and _her_ absence didn't matter, he drank as quickly as he could.

Quickly heading down the same road he'd taken last night into oblivion, Wilson pretended not to know that, when he woke up, he'd be in the exact same place.

* * *

When she'd mentioned her concerns to Foreman yesterday, he'd argued that House was being himself. Ill, but otherwise himself.

His body was thinner, anyone could see that; his eyes still hazy, there were small scabs forming on his head where he'd had sutures. Having refused to have it shaved, House now had a patchy beard growing in, that made him look more hobo than unkempt doctor. But other than that, physically… at least _superficially_, House seemed to be proving Dr. Foreman right.

And yet, looking at House now, Cuddy knew better than to trust Foreman's medical opinion.

Because _something_ was just not right.

It wasn't just about the tears, she told herself; the uncharacteristic display of emotion weighed heavily in her mind, made her wonder just how traumatic his brain injury was, but there was more to it than that. As inconsolable as he'd seemed, as sudden as the tears had come – she could almost overlook that.

After all, he'd been injured, watched his best friend's girlfriend die, and then watched Wilson _leave_.

If that didn't make House upset, then what would?

The question making her look at him differently, Cuddy was almost, in a sick and bizarre sort of way, _glad_ that she'd caught him crying.

Not that she _wanted_ to see him in a hospital bed with a look on his face that suggested nothing would ever be the same for him again, she thought immediately. But… at least, she could tell that he cared. Which was more than he usually gave her to work with, she realized sadly.

And yet, having that knowledge did _not_ fill her with any joy. Because, even if she could put the tears aside, there was so much more about his behavior that troubled her.

Gone was the mischief that always seemed to be present in his bright blue eyes. In all the years she'd known him, Cuddy had never seen him _not _scheming or formulating some way to get into trouble or cause it. From flirting with his teenaged stalker to breaking the MRI machine on a nearly _bi-monthly _basis, he had _always _searched for new and more impressive ways to stir the pot.

And now… that was gone.

Anyone else would have argued otherwise, of course.

He'd tried to avoid the feeding tube; he'd fought her each and every time she tried to turn on the pump. He was still insulting her, still refusing the most basic attempts at caring for himself and being cared for by _her_. He hadn't wanted to blow his own nose when the tube had come out.

He didn't want to shave, didn't want to be bathed, didn't want to eat the hospital food. Although, on this last point, Cuddy had quickly realized that giving him extra pudding and baiting him with promises of being released if he ate worked. If only temporarily, as the high sugar content in the pudding only seemed to exacerbate his mental impairment, leaving him even more recalcitrant than he'd been before he'd picked up the spoon.

All in all, the entire list of behaviors was… enough to make her believe that she had become the Jewish version of a saint. And Cuddy could clearly see, if only from her brief conversation with Foreman, that everyone else would use it as incontrovertible proof that House _was _the same asshole he'd always been.

But she _knew _there was a difference. As much as things hadn't appeared to have changed on the surface, she could tell that something _had. _Even if she couldn't name what that was exactly, she could feel it. Could _hear _it in every conversation she attempted to have with House.

A child's curiosity gone horribly awry, his penchant for pot stirring and mischievousness had always been significantly more complicated than most people gave him credit for.

She would _never _deny that House was an ass, of course.

He _was_.

_Obviously_, he was.

But… there was more to him than that, more than just blanketed insults and outlandish remarks. Because underneath all of that roughened exterior was someone capable of making the most pointed observations, was a man who could on the one hand expose all of your lies and faults and with the other _accept_ you for them. And for each destructive comment and action, there was a diagnosis, an act of friendship… _something_ to make it seem all worthwhile.

Even when he was being particularly idiotic, _that_ fact made dealing with him easier, bearable. The silver lining of it all visible every now and then, it was the reason she could turn down one hundred million dollars, could stand up to an overzealous detective, could lie under oath.

Now, however… House wasn't going for the outlandish remark or the insensitive observation.

He was _just_ being an ass.

And… honestly, Cuddy had dealt with him enough to let his insults slide. She didn't necessarily mind that, could have lived with any of the things he was saying under normal circumstances.

But what he was doing now was something she could _not_ abide by, something she couldn't ignore. Because what he was doing now was obsessing over every detail in his life. If he weren't sullenly sitting in bed, he was snarling over how the sheets on the bed had been shifted. And if he weren't furious about the linens, then he was yelling about Foreman and the way she clicked her pen.

Everything and anything could and _did_ send him into a tailspin, his mood souring quicker than milk in desert weather. His chest rising and falling unsteadily, his eyes narrowing on her, he would yell and insult until exhaustion over took him. Which, thankfully, happened within ten, fifteen minutes.

But for that brief period of time that he was awake and upset, Cuddy had… _no idea_ how to handle him. She'd tried consoling, tried giving him what he wanted, no matter how stupid; she'd _tried_ to fight with him, tried to get him to _calm down_.

And of course, none of it worked.

_Nothing_ worked.

At least, she could only assume the antidepressants (which had worked when he'd taken them over a year ago) she'd started slipping into his cocktail of drugs weren't working. Or maybe assume was the wrong word, because… truthfully, Cuddy was hoping that they _weren't_ working. Because if the pills _were_ doing their job, and this was the best they could do…

Then she had no desire to see what he would be like off the pills.

In the back of her mind, she planned to adjust his dose.

No, she told herself, she was _going_ to adjust it… just not until she was sure that fiddling around with his medications was an acceptable course of action to take. And Cuddy believed that they were probably nearing that point. But until she was sure, she would _deal_ with his behavior, as undesirable a solution as that was.

After all, he didn't make it easy, nor was he going to.

House never made _anything_ easy.

Not even when he got the news that he was being released did he decide to play nicely. Instead of a smile or something approaching happiness spreading across his haggard features, he only looked at her blankly.

So, standing at the foot of his head, she asked, "Did you hear me? You're being released today… right now, actually. I just processed your discharge papers."

He blinked in response.

A sympathetic smile on her face mingling with an increasing sense of confusion, Cuddy asked him, "Aren't you happy?"

"Yeah, thrilled" was his dry response.

She frowned. _This_ was not what she had been expecting. Of course, it had probably been wrong to expect anything even remotely approaching _joy_ from him, given the circumstances. But still…

"Seriously," House repeated, absolutely no humor in his voice. "I now know how the Jews must have felt when the gates of Auschwitz were opened." As an afterthought, he added, "The second time. Probably weren't too happy about being tossed in there to begin –"

"Shut up," she interrupted irritably.

"Gonna give me the lobotomy, Ratched, if I _don't_?" he asked sarcastically, daringly.

Unceremoniously, Cuddy began to pull at the thin sheets covering his body. The covers quickly slipping down his long legs, she quipped, "I was thinking a last minute enema, courtesy of the Princeton-Plainsboro nursing staff, but –"

The back of his hand tiredly rubbing at his eyes, House echoed her earlier sentiment, "Shut up."

She did.

The exhaustion he was most likely feeling aside, Cuddy _herself_ had quickly tired of the almost constant squabbling. It was taxing to constantly live in the frenetic state House pushed her in.

Truth be told, under normal circumstances, when she only spent an hour or two at _most_ with him in a day, she relished the banter. Their sarcasm and dark senses of humor feeding off one another, words glided off her tongue with an ease she couldn't quite find with anyone else. The conversation always taking bizarre and interesting turns, Cuddy could never explain how they would get to the end of the thought process or where the end would even be. But regardless, she thrived with him, as he did with her, under those circumstances.

But this, however, was different.

This was _constant_ – the need to defend her choices and keep his health in mind, the need to offer him sarcasm and sympathy all at once. It was all a fine balancing act that Cuddy had no idea how to perform. Like a drunken, blind trapeze artist with only one leg, she floundered to find the right words to say at any given moment, struggled to give House exactly what he needed.

Sometimes she succeeded, others not so much, and the collective effect was that _she_ was just as tired as he was. Coupled with trying to run a hospital at the same time, Cuddy couldn't help but quiet down when he told her to shut up.

Silently, she folded the sheets down at the edge of the bed before turning away. Walking over to the drawers in the room that held all the things she'd taken from his apartment, Cuddy silently pulled out the clothes she had picked.

"I went to your house," she explained to him. "Grabbed some things for you. So you have a choice – pajamas or – "

"You had _no right_ to do that," he snarled immediately.

Turning back to him with the clothes in her hand, she plopped both options down at the food of the bed. As patiently as she could, Cuddy admitted, "Maybe not. But you're just going to have to live with the fact that I _did_ do it."

"_No_, I –"

"After all the times you've broken into my office – my _house_ – you can learn to live with it," she interrupted.

Of course, Cuddy knew that he would never see what she had done that way. And, eager to avoid a fight, she tried to transition the conversation to a more neutral topic. "So, what's it going to be?" she asked. "Jeans and a t-shirt or pajamas?"

At first, House merely frowned at her, not saying anything. His sour mood obvious to her, it was no surprise when he finally spoke up, "No."

"It's not a yes or no question," she reminded him calmly.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to decide. _You_ shouldn't have done that."

Realizing that she wasn't going to be able to redirect the conversation and _move on_, Cuddy sighed. She would never understand how he could be so private and protective of his own personal life and still choose to railroad over everyone else's.

_Honestly, _how could he take offense to what she'd done when _he_ had been the one to break into her home and sort through her underwear? How could _he_ be pissed when he was the one who'd run the PCR test without her consent?

Not really feeling the apology, she said, "I'm sorry. All right?" Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Cuddy told him slightly irritably, "I know that you have… _issues_ with people invading your privacy. _But_ –"

"You did it anyway," he accused. His hands were clenching into fists against the mattress of the bed. His large knuckles turning white, she had no doubt that the strain from that act would only fuel his exhaustion. "You _knew_ I wouldn't go for it, and you –"

"Did what I wanted, because I knew it was the _right_ thing to do, _yeah,_" she interrupted. "Like you do _all the time_ when I tell _you_ no."

"The difference _is_," House replied, sounding as didactic as he could possibly be. "_I_ am always _right_ in those situations. _You_ are _not._"

She nodded her head dramatically, brow furrowing of its own volition. "_Right_," she said sarcastically. "I was wrong; I should have absolutely let you walk out of here with your ass hanging out of your hospital gown instead."

He had no immediate retort to offer her, which was, she supposed, House saying, in not so many words, that she was right.

Not that he would _ever_ say it; his silence would be all that she could hope for in terms of an apology. And truthfully, Cuddy was fine with that. Because she hadn't gotten this far in life with House by her side still believing that conciliations needed to be verbalized. He'd robbed her of _that_ belief long ago, and she had learned since then to accept each and every small act of humanity he was willing to bestow upon her.

"So," she said increasingly cheerily. "What will it be? Pajamas or –"

Interrupting, he demanded, "Give me the stupid jeans already."

Plucking the clothes off of the mattress that he wanted, Cuddy handed them to him. "Do you need help?" she asked instinctively, the years she'd actually regularly dealt with patients somehow mixing with the present.

The glare he gave her in response was all the answer she needed. And, out of respect for his privacy, she turned away from him once more. Taking the pajamas with her, Cuddy began to pack them, and the remainder of his things, into the duffle bag she'd brought to the hospital seemingly so long ago.

So much and _so little_ had changed since then.

Wilson was now furious with her, and she'd seen more of House's ass than she had _ever_ wanted to. That much had probably, unfortunately, altered her world for years to come.

But at the same time… House was barely any better. He'd gained a good portion of his weight back, the hypermetabolism effectively under control, yes. His sutures had been removed and were beginning to heal, which was also good. And yet, his moods were unpredictable, each emotion bizarrely strong and none of them happy.

Swinging quickly between sullen and angry, despondent and outright crying, he never seemed pleased to… have survived the crash at all.

Sighing, she turned back around.

Truthfully, House had made more progress in getting dressed than she had imagined he would. He'd managed to swing his legs off of the bed; his underwear was on, the white band peaking out of the top of his jeans, which were zipped up but not buttoned. His hands were fumbling with his inside out t-shirt, his fingers struggling to fix it.

His hospital gown was, of course, on the floor, she noted with another sigh.

He really _was_ like an unruly five year old at times.

Both amused at the idea of House as a child and sympathetic towards his mother, Cuddy took the few steps necessary to be near the fallen item of clothing. Unkempt nails that needed to be trimmed clasping the papery material, she easily picked it up off the floor and placed it on the bed.

And, her attention turning back towards House, she was not entirely surprised to notice that he still hadn't gotten the finer points of the shirt. His brain still recovering from the trauma, it was only _normal_ for him to experience some problems – even if he were too stubborn to realize or accept that fact.

Afraid that he would lash out at her because of it, Cuddy was tentative in holding her hand out towards him. Her voice calm, gentle, she asked, "Do you want my help with that?"

"No, I was thinking I should go for the beefcake look. The nurses love that," House replied, sarcasm lacing each and every word.

He thrust the t-shirt at her, the soft cotton material bouncing off of her face and fluttering to the floor. The large shirt pooled at the black tops of her heels, and it was, she thought, almost embarrassing that she'd been _unable_ to catch it from such a short distance. After all, Cuddy had been a tom boy for most of her life, far more interested in sports and the high sweating gave her than boys and make up.

That part, obviously, had come to her later in life, had arose in her at almost the same time she realized she could use her looks to her _advantage_.

And although it had been… well, from before the bus crash since she'd last gone for a long run, the sporty girl inside of her blanched at being unable to receive such an easy toss. Then again, her only physical activity the last couple weeks or so saving House from himself, it was hardly the kind of sport she _wanted_ to play. And besides, he'd essentially just… _allowed_ her to help him, and _that_ was nothing short of _shocking._

Dumbly reaching down to grab the material, she was slow in turning the material inside out. Didn't even bother to hurry until House snapped, "I was kidding about wanting to look like a Chippendale. So anytime now would be good."

"Be patient," she chastised, her pleasant surprise quickly giving way to the realization that he would be torturing her mercilessly no matter what. Even if he had mentally prepared himself to accept her help, he was _still_ going to be an ass about it.

Easily her deft fingers righted the shirt. And closing the distance, Cuddy didn't give him the option of putting the stupid thing on himself. Forcing his greasy hair and giant head into the relatively small neck hole, she was as gentle as she could be, given her own rightful irritation.

Not that _he_ could appreciate that. Calmly, _patiently_ waiting for the sarcastic remark to come, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves.

But it wasn't until he'd stood up and she was buttoning his pants for him that House decided to make his move. Gesturing down to her hands closing his jeans for him, he suggested, "You know, this is probably why you never get laid. You're supposed to take the pants _off_, Cuddy."

Despite her best judgment, she couldn't help but smirk, _blush_ as she tucked a loose curl behind her hair. "I'll keep that in mind," she told thin-lipped.

The moment quickly disappearing, the hostility and frantic energy just as easily returning, House demanded to know, "Where's my cane?"

"_Your_ cane," she explained, "is probably part of a crime scene, if it hasn't been destroyed outright or lost in the accident."

His ass plopping back down on the thin mattress, he dramatically brought his hand to his chin. Cupping it as though he were pretending to think, he said, "Hmmm… I wonder if there were some magical place a person could get canes. I mean – since you were obviously too stupid to snoop in my hall closet to get me one." He continued to pretend to contemplate the possibilities, as she folded her arms across her chest in irritation. "Oh, I know," House announced, his index finger sticking straight up into the air. "_Hospitals_ have canes. If only we were near a _hospital._ Oh wait!" he exclaimed dramatically. "We _are_ _in_ a hospital."

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy asked, "Are you done?"

"Do you have my cane?"

"You don't need a cane," she said smoothly, the words escaping her before she'd had any chance to think them through. And her sentence now hanging in the heated, antiseptic hospital air, she could _hear_ just how stupid it sounded and knew just how House was going to respond.

And indeed, true to form, he looked down at his right thigh. His hand dramatically moving to the place where there was no longer an abundance of healthy muscle, he gently raked over the area. "_Really_?" he asked hyperbolically. "Doctor Cuddy, have you been growing a quadriceps tree on Wilson's side of the balcony next to his marijuana?"

"Wilson grows _pot_ on _hospital_ grounds?" she asked, feeling the blush spread along her chest and clavicle. Just the thought of illegal activity, of her _head of oncology_ growing _drugs_ on the _hospital premises_, was enough to make her worry that she was going to break out into hives.

The board and hospital inspectors would have a field day if they ever found out…

"Of course not," House said, waving off her concern. "He _grows_ it at home; he just rolls it here. _Duh_." Her eyes meeting his, she couldn't tell if he were serious or not. "Now… my cane?"

"I will deal with Wilson later," Cuddy told him, as though he were really interested in his best friend being reamed for offering cancer patients a legitimate, if illegal, treatment for unbearable nausea.

As though _she_ really cared about it even, she thought ruefully.

Honestly, Cuddy wasn't too concerned about Wilson being caught; he was always responsible, smart enough to know how to avoid making the authorities curious.

And yet, she decided she would talk to him anyway. Maybe not about the weed itself, although that could be the pretext to get him to talk to her, she supposed. The use of hospital business to leap across gaping chasms and into meaningful conversations was not a unique tactic; if anything, she _regularly_ used it when trying to discuss _anything_ with House.

Or more to the point, it was the technique she regularly used to talk _about_ House _to_ Wilson. Segueing from "House broke the MRI machine again" to something more personal, Cuddy had always relied on those little incidents to connect with Wilson.

But now, she supposed that had been the wrong technique to use all these years. Because _now_… after he'd learned that she wasn't going to go to Amber's funeral, Wilson had been furious with Cuddy. And he'd _never_ been angry with her, not even when she'd effectively chosen House over him during Tritter's reign of terror. Really, regardless of what she'd done in the past, Wilson had _always_ forgiven her, had always implicitly accepted her less than admirable actions.

It was the natural by-product of being friends with House. It was the glue that connected Cuddy and Wilson's otherwise disparate personalities into any sort of friendship.

And now that connection had been worn thin, its insulation violently stripped away.

Thread bare and reaching the breaking point (she didn't want to even begin to think that it had already broken), their friendship was as close to over as it had ever been. And, though Cuddy had never outright _told_ Wilson that she appreciated everything he had done for her…

That didn't mean it wasn't true.

That didn't mean she was ready to let him walk out of her life.

She was _far_ from ready to let _that _happen. Because, given how troublesome House could be, Cuddy _needed_ someone else to help her out. The sentiment, she thought, was not unlike the kind a woman wanting to stay in a loveless marriage for the sake of the children might utter.

Only she _did_ like Wilson, did care about him, if in a different way than how she looked at House. And that meant she was _absolutely_ going to talk to Wilson, even if it meant using hospital business to force the conversation.

Likewise, Cuddy told House, "You don't need your cane _right now_. Hospital policy says your ass has to be in a wheelchair."

As if on cue, Nurse Unger pushed open the room's door and brought in the wheelchair, which House was sure to hate.

Once again, true to form, he argued, "I can walk." He didn't sound affronted, Cuddy thought. But there was no ignoring the way he eyed the wheelchair as though it were evil, as though he _hadn't_ used said chair before for a _bet._

Mentally sighing, she told herself that there were times that she just did _not_ understand this man. "Obviously, you can walk," she told him, sounding irritated. "But hospital policy –"

"Don't quote _policy _to me, Cuddy," House interrupted, pointing a finger at her. "You want to wheel around the cripple, then just _say_ that."

"Fine," she snapped, putting a hand on her hip. "Will you _please_ get your ass in the chair?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded rough, snotty, and completely annoyed – which she _was_. "As much as I'd love to watch you try and walk on your own," she told him. "I have no desire seeing you hobble ten feet, collapse, and set your recovery back –"

"'My recovery,'" he repeated with a sneer. The way his mouth contorted over the words, he clearly didn't approve of her language.

Cuddy held a hand up, signaling him to not say another word. Exasperated, she told him, "Call it what you want. I don't care. I'm really _not_ interested in getting into a semantics argument with you. Just get in the damn chair, all right?"

House listened, thank God.

His movements were slow, jerkier than they normally were. The effects of the accident and brain stimulation were obviously making things harder for him; the sweat dotting his brow by the time he sat down was evident of that fact.

And though Cuddy would have liked to help him, she knew that she'd needed to let him traverse the short distance on his own. Because now at least, he wouldn't even contemplate fighting her on the wheelchair; he wouldn't want to walk knowing that his legs might not support him the entire way.

Indeed, House was unusually quiet as she placed the duffle bag on his lap and began to wheel him out of the room.

In fact it wasn't until they were waiting for the elevator that he mentioned, "You realize you would have lost that semantics argument, right?"

"Maybe," she told him, pushing him onto the elevator. The doors quickly closing behind them, Cuddy said with a smirk, "Can still beat you in a foot race, though."

Admittedly the joke was in poor taste, had a dark undercurrent that originated in fact. And part of her was aware that she _shouldn't_ make jokes like that, if only because she had played a part in his thigh's current state.

But then, House had never taken offense, and he'd certainly made fun of her at any opportunity he had, so…

What was the harm?

If he had an answer to that question, he didn't fill her in.

His mouth firmly closed, he didn't say anything at all for the remainder of the trip. Silently plopping into the passenger side of her car, he had his eyes shut by the time she pulled out of the hospital parking lot; his soft snores soon filled the silent car with the quiet sound.

Cuddy hadn't expected him to stay awake. In a way, this was the most activity that he'd had since he'd had the deep brain stimulation. And considering she had yet to tell him that… she would be staying with him, she almost appreciated his near constant need for sleep.

Because, of all the conversations she never wanted to have, explaining to House that he wasn't rid of her just yet was easily top of the list.

He was going to freak out, she thought to herself, as she turned onto the street where he lived. He was going to be absolutely livid. And when he learned that she'd had Foreman and Thirteen cleaning up his apartment, she would be glad, she suspected, that House's strength was currently impaired.

Not that Cuddy truly suspected he would hurt her _physically_.

At least not under normal circumstances, anyway.

But if she had learned one thing since the bus accident, it was that these were _not_ normal circumstances.

Wilson was gone, she was the closest thing House now had to a friend, and there was his brain injury to think of. As bizarre as the first two conditions were, it was the last one that worried her the most. She could adjust to Wilson being gone, and she could accept her new role in House's life, and she suspected that he might also, eventually, be able to accept those things as well. And if he couldn't accept them, at least there were things to be done to… _fix_ that.

He could apologize to Wilson, and she could talk to him, anyway.

But the third, House's brain injury, was beyond any of their control. _That_ would have to heal on its own time. Six weeks from now, six years from now, there was no telling how long it would take him to regain everything he had so easily thrown away for _Amber_. It might be years, Cuddy realized, before House could put on his own clothes without effort, before he could control his emotions again.

The picture grim in her mind, it was still sadly one of the more positive options. Because at least in that scenario what he'd lost could be regained, could be recovered. Even if it took years, there was still hope that he would return to who he was before the accident.

Unfortunately, however, that _was_ wishful thinking, considering the severity of his injury. The temporal bone fractured down to his ear, the gap widened by the brain stimulation, it was a lot worse than a bump on the head; this wasn't a concussion that House could easily shake off. As much as she didn't want to think about it, Cuddy couldn't deny that there was a very real possibility that he would never fully recover.

She couldn't ignore the fact that he might _always_ be this upset, this tempestuous and problematic.

But, as she pulled the car over to the curb in front of her house, Cuddy felt her own determination shove that fear aside.

She wouldn't deny that he might not get better, she told herself. She just would _not_ let herself see it as the end of the world – even if, the Dean of Medicine thought grimly, that meant he no longer could be a doctor.

Because… it would be okay.

There was a distinct possibility that he would permanently be altered by the events of the last month or so, but it would be _okay._

Turning the car off, Cuddy reminded herself of all the things that had changed since she'd first met House. Their one-night stand, his infarction, her perjury – those events were all evidence that they had changed. It was the proof that they were no longer the seemingly naïve youths intent on learning everything that could be learned about medicine.

They'd hardened over the years, their cynicism easing their passages down some very dark roads. And there had been _many_ shady paths they'd tread together and alone.

Which made what they were going through now, what _House_ was experiencing now, just one more twist, one more fork in the road for them to walk.

Of course, even with that way of thinking, she did _not_ believe it would be easy. Helping him recover would be harder than… probably almost anything she could think of; she realized that much.

But looking at his slumbering form now, Cuddy remembered all the footsteps they had taken together. The journey shared had never been one of her own making; she'd never even imagined herself sticking by House whose demons and machinations seemed intent on chasing him deeper into the forest.

She'd never planned for that, and yet that was exactly what she'd done.

And, a small smile forming on her thin lips, Cuddy accepted that, no matter what happened now, she would continue to stick by him. No matter how much he might protest, she would stay with him.

They'd already gone too far down that road for her to turn back now.

* * *

Her hand reaching forward to cup his cheek, her fingers were cold against his growing stubble. The change in temperature enough to jolt him from his nearing-slumber haze, it was decidedly _not_ a welcome gesture.

Turning to look at her then, House glared. "You've been pushing rest on me for… who knows how long," he accused. "And now that I actually _try_ to sleep, you want me to –"

"We're home," Cuddy told him gently. Opening her car door, she explained, "I thought you would rather spend the afternoon sleeping in your bed than cramped up in my small car."

It was an argument he couldn't even begin to argue with. His exhausted mind pounding against his skull, a high-pitched note thrumming in his ear, House had other things to worry about besides _her_. Because, surprisingly, for the first time in a very, very, _very_ long time, she wasn't the irritant in his life that was most driving him nuts.

As she opened his car door for him and took the duffle bag he'd forgotten about off of his lap, he mused that he'd never thought there would be a day when something could be more annoying than Cuddy.

Bug bites, hemorrhoids, and the like had never held a candle to his pesky boss, but here he was, with something bothering him _so much more_ than she ever had. And House thought he understood then why old people, like really _ancient_ people, always said that a person could live long enough to see anything.

Refusing to grab her hand, he slowly got out of the car. His movements stiff and clumsy, it would have been admittedly easier to just let her help him. In fact, his leg twisting awkwardly as he stood up, he wished more than ever that he _had_ accepted her assistance.

Pain burned hotly in his thigh. The frayed and butchered nerves within pinched and throbbed so sharply that it was all he could do _not_ to cry out in pain.

Stumbling backwards a step, House knew he was lucky to have the car right behind him. Had there been nothing for his body to rest against, he would have fallen. Of that he had no doubts.

His right hand, trying to soothe an ache that could never disappear, instinctively moved to his thigh. And moving just as quickly was Cuddy, whose hand quickly wrapped around his elbow.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her concern obvious in her eyes and tone.

But House couldn't answer; his mouth too busy trying to inhale and exhale slowly, he was trying to use it to distract him from his pain. Focusing on the rush of air he expelled, he futilely hoped to calm his now tense body.

It didn't work.

It never had, and really, he had no reason to believe the feeling of his nerves being yanked and stressed could be outdone by simple oxygen. But he did it anyway, if only to stop himself from letting out what would have been a barely contained scream.

By the time he was able to answer Cuddy's question vocally, it was already apparent _physically _what his response would be. Sweated dotted his brow and spine, the moisture making his shirt clingy. His face felt flushed, his cheeks burning, and his leg muscles twitched at irregular intervals.

"Can you walk on your own or do you want me to get your cane?" Cuddy asked eventually.

He sighed, carefully trying to weigh both options. To himself, he asked if he could make it on his own. His mind too tired to truly give the matter much rational consideration, House's thoughts quickly devolved into a palpable sense of loathing.

He _hated_ this – having to calculate every step he took, every move he made. And there was no doubting that, cane or no cane, it would _hurt_; he _would_ be in _pain_.

That fact toying with his mind, it was one that House realized he would _never_ be able to escape from. No matter how long he lived, no matter how much he recovered from his _brain_ injury, he would never be free from his leg; it would just get worse and worse until the drugs failed or his liver did – whichever came first.

His head might or might not get better, but there was no doubt that his leg was permanently this way.

All thanks to Stacy… and _Cuddy_.

Rage and repulsion mixing together in a potent combination, there was no desire inside of him to be anywhere near either woman _ever_ again.

Which was easy to do when it came to Stacy. Aside from being with Mark, she hadn't been the kind of woman – _obviously_ – to stick around when she wasn't wanted. Or when things got too difficult for her to handle.

Not that House could really _fault_ her for leaving. After all, if he'd had the option to escape the reality they'd shared those last months, he would have; if running had been an option in more ways than one, he _would_ have.

But Cuddy wasn't like Stacy or himself, he realized. _Cuddy_ was a whole different animal, what with her guilt and her concern and her general inability to get lost when she was definitely _not_ wanted.

She was the kind of person he wouldn't ever really be able to understand. She felt guilt when she had no reason to, sought to be a circle queen even when she clearly wasn't, and always managed to undo her own attempts to be normal by making bizarre choices like hiring him. Unceremoniously naïve and oh so messed up, Cuddy was just useful enough to keep herself in his orbit but obviously _not_ useful enough to make _him_ want her around.

"House?" she asked, the delicate skin around her eyes crinkling in concern.

His response was immediate, cold and mean enough to reflect his declining mood. "Get off of me," he snapped, pushing her hand off of his body.

She didn't try touching him again, the slight affront visible in her eyes for only a second. Truth be told, if House hadn't been shooting a glare at her, he probably would have missed the tiny hint of hurt in her gaze.

But having felt a looks-could-kill moment was necessary, he _had_ seen it.

And promptly decided to do nothing.

As did she, because she brushed the implied insult off and asked calmly, "Do you think you can walk on your own or-"

"_Yeah_," House replied sarcastically. "All these years I've been using a cane – that was just a ruse to make you feel guiltier. Worked, didn't it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Be nice," she said, the warning immediately apparent in the order.

"Gonna spank me if I'm not?" he asked, purposely wide-eyed.

Strands of dark hair bobbing back and forth, Cuddy shook her head. "Be nice," she repeated, this time with a hint of malice. "Or I'll make you _crawl_ to your front door."

"You're being mean," House told her in much the same way a child would utter the words.

But if he expected her to go for the bait, to pursue the argument further, he'd been wrong. Because all Cuddy did was turn away from him and start to take a couple steps towards the front door of his apartment building.

Her short heels clicking on the ground like horses' hooves with shoes that needed to be replaced, House did not appreciate the noise. The sound low enough to be ignored by anyone else, it was too much for his already scattered mind. And he found himself wincing without even thinking about it – _and_ calling out to her as well.

"Cuddy, stop." She turned, her eyes carefully searching his. Her gaze looking for something, it was obvious that she was suspicious of him, he realized; she was expecting him to say something horribly inappropriate or "wrong." Which made sense, because part of him wanted to do just that.

But what he heard himself saying in a low voice was "Just help me get inside." It was a request for help that he'd never wanted to utter, the words foreign and odd on his tongue. As though he'd never asked for her help, as though he'd never exposed himself to her nearly begging for morphine, he sounded awkward, ungrateful, even to his own ears.

And there was no doubt in his mind that she was hearing the exact same thing.

But, and maybe there was something to be said for Cuddy's self-flagellating nature, she didn't fight back, didn't _demand_ an apology or kindness. Instead of reminding him that he had, only moments previously, pushed her hand away and rejected her touch, she shrugged.

Heels clicking once more as she traversed the short distance back to him, Cuddy quietly let him wrap an arm around her shoulder. Her warm body pressed up against his side, House couldn't help but muse that this had been the most… contact he'd had with another human being in a _long_ time.

Since Amber had helped him walk after he'd sent electricity jolting through his body.

The memory potent and vivid, even to his hazy mind, it was one he couldn't help but relive, see before his weary eyes in that moment. She had been taller than Cuddy was now. Closer to the same height, he didn't have to hunch awkwardly over her for support, as he was doing now.

Taking his first step with Cuddy in that moment, he realized that the pain now was much worse than it had been then. He'd had more painkillers in him then; at least he could only assume that. But too, there was the distinct possibility that the combined effect of being in a bus accident, fracturing his skull, stopping his heart, guzzling down Physostigmine and Vicodin, and having deep brain stimulation and seizure was way worse than the fairly simple act of electrocution.

Who knew?

Cuddy paused them both as they stepped away from the car. "Hold on," she told him, using her foot to kick her passenger side door shut. The action so clumsy and bizarre, House thought it would have amused him at any other time to see her move like that.

But right now, all he could think of was getting to his bed and enjoying the, what would easily be a month's worth of time, sick leave Cuddy would force him to take. So he kept quiet and waited as patiently as he knew how.

Her eyes glancing over to him, Cuddy said, "Okay. Ready to start moving?"

He nodded his head, thinking that it was odd how such a similar experience could be so divergent when relived. His injuries had been less complex then, his partner taller, but Amber's questions had been so much more complicated than the ones Cuddy was lobbing his way.

Amber had been more like him than he would ever want to admit; she'd been curious about his motives in a way that he would have never been comfortable with. And so, while his own reasons for firing her had probably been flimsy at best, they were good ones in the confines of his own mind.

She'd been too curious, inquisitive in a way that Cuddy wasn't and maybe had never been.

True, there were times when she was interested in the puzzle. But more than anything, Cuddy spent her days trying to achieve perfection, trying to keep everything running nice and smoothly.

Which, he guessed, she was trying to do now. With _him_ and his injuries.

Obviously not to much success, he thought grimly, as they lumbered up the steps.

"How are you doing?" Cuddy asked when they finally topped the landing. "Are you okay to keep going?"

"What, you gonna carry me the rest of the way?" House asked sarcastically, his breathing more labored than should have been allowed, more than what was normal for him.

Each breath ragged, this was _not_ how he usually was when he climbed the steps, cane or no. The remainders of his muscles would atrophy the less he used them, obviously, but even then, even considering that, this seemed odd.

Maybe his leg was getting worse?

The question beginning to niggle in the back of his mind, it was one that House summarily pushed away. He couldn't think about that with Cuddy's narrowed gaze on his face.

He'd already had enough humiliation what with the crying and all; he didn't need to give her a peek into his biggest fear of all – that his leg was getting _worse_.

Of course, and he should have known better than to underestimate Cuddy's ability to annoy the living hell out of him, she made the question so easy to keep to himself. "Unless you want to sleep on your stoop, like I said, _be nice_," she warned.

"You gonna keep saying that," he started to ask, as they started to hobble along again into the building. "In the hopes that I'll actually listen?"

As she helped him brace himself against his front door, Cuddy said with an eye roll, "Well, there is probably something to be said for boring you into submission."

He didn't have a response for that, his attention focused on the noise created by her hands digging through her purse. Little odds and ends rattling and crinkling at odd intervals, it was beginning to wear what little patience he had let down. But Cuddy didn't seem to notice, a small smile appearing on her face and the words, "See? It's already working," escaping her rouged lips.

Her fingers clasping around the keys in her purse with an odd rattle that House didn't like, she pulled the item out of her bag.

And _hesitated_ to stick the key in the lock.

Hundreds of sexual euphemisms and sex jokes easily popping into his mind, it was hard to process the fact that she _was_ hesitating. But when they kept standing outside of his front door, the seconds ticking away without any explanation from her, he could tell that she really _wasn't_ in a hurry to get him inside.

_Interesting._

Sarcastically, House asked, "Are you waiting for everyone to turn out the lights and hide behind the couch?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing, House," she replied in the same tone. "Just making sure Kutner's got the piñata hung. It'd be _very_ embarrassing if we went in too soon."

"Then why _are_ you being so slow?" he asked pointedly, his eyes narrowing on her.

She exhaled roughly at the question, the hiss of air stimulating his ears in all the wrong ways. The noise making him tug lightly on his right ear, he was distracted when Cuddy admitted, "All right, there _are_ some things you should know." Her words were rushed if quietly uttered. "I'm just trying to decide whether you'll freak out _more_ if I tell you now or – "

"Just tell me what the hell is going on, Cuddy," House snapped impatiently.

"Okay…" And yet she _still_ hesitated to speak. Her obvious uncertainty uncharacteristic even for _her_, it had him considering what exactly she was keeping from him.

"So are you going to _say _something or –"

"Shut up," she retorted easily, her nose vaguely scrunching up in annoyance. "I know you're impatient, but I'm _trying_ to keep you from _exploding_ –"

"Well, that's smart," he snapped quickly. "Because standing here with_ you_, with my _leg, _well, that's not annoying at all."

She shrugged dramatically. "Fine." Her hand easily working the key into the lock, his head throbbed as the sound of metal scraping against metal and the lock turning filled the charged air.

Stepping back gingerly, House watched her push the front door open.

His eyes suspiciously glancing into the apartment, he was not prepared for, nor was he pleased by, what he saw. Not even needing to take a step into the apartment, House could see what was different.

The floor in front of him had been _cleaned_ recently, the things he'd dumped on the ground over the past month or so missing. His eyes frantically searching for his belongings, as though he'd simply not seen them, he was none too pleased to realize:

Someone had been cleaning his home.

And he could _smell _it.

The scent not too unlike the hospital air, it was a mixture of lemons, pine, and ammonia – of _"clean_._" _A bizarre combination, one he'd certainly never associated with his own apartment, it made his head ache and stomach turn. And, for fear of making the pain inside of him worse, he suddenly didn't want to go in.

Blinking, his mind numb, he heard himself ask, "What?" The word trailed off, getting caught in the back of his throat in the same manner Cuddy's hand seemed to tangle with his shirt along the middle of his back.

Her palm was cool, even through the worn cotton material of his top. The reassuring touch not assuring in the least, it was one he would have shrugged away, had he not been too distracted by the sight before him.

"House," she said gently.

His response was a numb "You cleaned."

"I had some people clean your apartment, yes," she answered honestly.

The apology and remorse he'd expected to hear non-existent, it easily shoved House to the brink. Anger rapidly suffocating the rational part of his mind, he lashed out at Cuddy. "You had _no right_ to –"

"Make sure that you were going home to a safe and _clean_ apartment?" she interrupted loudly. "As your _doctor_ –"

He hastily retorted, "Too bad you're _not_ a doctor, _Hospital Administrator_." The last word was pronounced in such a way that she could clearly hear the word "ass."

A sour expression immediately contorting her features, she was clearly annoyed when she corrected herself. "_Fine_. As the _concerned_ _hospital administrator_ who has spent _way too many_ hours wiping your ass and making sure you eat, _I_ wanted to make sure that you were going to be _okay_."

Her hand no longer on his back, she'd placed it on her hip defensively.

And in the same manner, he repeated, feeling as though they'd had this conversation before, "You had _no right _to invade my –"

"_Yes_, I _invaded_ your privacy," she said, waving off the accusation. "So that you would be _safe_," Cuddy emphasized, the sinew in her neck tight and accentuated as she uttered the words. But then she added as an after thought, sounding calmer than she had seconds previously, "Only _you_ would take affront to someone trying to keep you _healthy_."

His own response was calmer as well, even if his usual sarcasm rounded out every word. "Yeah, this works perfectly. It's a huffer's wet dream, but thank _God_ we killed all those pesky microbes."

"Well, if only there were some way to ventilate the place," she snapped back in agitation. And then, as to if to emphasize just how stupid she thought his point was, she pretended to have an epiphany. A hand flying in the air, Cuddy falsely exclaimed, "I know! Maybe we can buy you one of those ancient contraptions – a _window. _Oh wait, you _have_ some of those already_._"

Taking a step inside, she turned to him, the expectant look on her face demanding that he move inside as well.

He didn't.

"Or maybe," she said sadly. "You'd actually prefer to be exposed to God only knows what lives in this apartment with you." Her fury beginning to wake up within her, Cuddy angrily expounded, "Because God _forbid_ you accept someone else's _help_, accept that other people _aren't_ that bad! It'd be _much better_ to catch a stupid _yeast infection_ or something else than let other people in!"

His head pounded as her voice got louder. Decibel on top of decibel, the overall effect made him want to slap her. Made him want to rip her voice box out, because the screeching from her larynx was too much for him right now.

Granted, on any given day, the noises she could make when she was pissy were enough to send his head into a migraine-induced oblivion. But at least _then_, his mind had been running on all cylinders and the ability to fight her back.

Had an ability that he _clearly_ didn't have now, the surreal aura he had before the unrelenting headache beginning to creep up on him now.

As though he weren't in enough pain as it was.

Annoyed, he snapped, "You're right – I should make the effort to avoid catching a yeast infection. So… that means I'll have to stay away from you. Which means time for you to go then, right? Wouldn't want to catch anything that'll make my dick fall off."

There was no humor to the joke, no hint of impishness in the words. His usual jerkiness funneling itself into something much darker, he was now just being mean, _cruel._ Even to his own ears, it was an ungrateful, callous thing to say. _Wrong_ to say, because, without her, House was pretty sure he wouldn't have made it this far.

The sentiment far too sentimental to ever admit out loud, it was still one he couldn't exactly deny to himself. Because, as much as things had changed, this – his reliance… on her – had a very strict set of rules.

She was always his second choice.

Wilson had always been number one, the person he needed more than any other (another fact he would never admit to anyone). The medicine and puzzles aside, his best friend was his world. A very small, _miniscule _even, part of that world cut out for his boss, it wasn't enough to make House look at her one way or the other.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. He liked her ass and her cleavage and when she agreed with him. But there wasn't much else to it; he certainly didn't want to _hang out_ with her, do things with her. Because… he had Wilson, and that had been plenty for him.

But the problem with that was when Wilson got angry and left, there was a gaping hole in his world. Or maybe the more appropriate metaphor was Wilson's absence created a giant black hole, the emptiness easily morphing into an inescapable vacuum that threatened to steal all of the hope and happiness in his fragile world.

In fact, short of making things up to Wilson, there was only one option left to him: Cuddy. The latter more irritating, but no where near as awkward as apologizing to his best friend, House found himself, with increasing frequency, relying on her friendship.

The bond between them different than the one he had with Wilson, it was not nearly the neat substitute he would have liked. But every now and then, when she would calmly implore him to hire a team without assaulting his guitars, House could see the advantage in that.

She wasn't Wilson, but part of him was okay with that.

Her lack of a personal life made things _so _much less messy, first of all. The knowledge that she could _so_ easily be manipulated out of a date was one he used to his advantage. Which he refused to feel guilty about on account of the fact that the losers she thought she wanted weren't really the kinds of men she _did_ want.

And to that end, Cuddy was easier to manipulate as a whole. She did not, as a general rule, find the impetus to deny his pain or to devise clever little plans to separate him from his drugs.

Or so he thought.

"That will be change number two," Cuddy announced, cutting quickly through his thoughts.

He used the doorframe for leverage then, his hand gripping around the edges of its molding to limp inside. "What?" he asked, confused.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Aside from your apartment being inhabitable, you should know that… I will be staying with you." A blush slowly began to spread across her cheeks as she uttered the words slowly, carefully.

He didn't even want to imagine the look on _his_ face right now. Assuming there was any color to his pallor at all, he could only say that his red tint had scarcely _anything_ to do with embarrassment.

Disgust twisting his stomach into knots, the idea seemed dumber and dumber the more he thought about it. "What?" he repeated.

"As much as you don't want to admit it," Cuddy said languidly. "We both know you're too sick to… cook for yourself, clean after yourself. You need someone to -"

Closing the door behind him, House replied, his confusion compounding, "I'm pretty sure there are people you can _hire _to –"

"Like you would listen to any of them?"

His head cocked, he posed the question, "Like I'm going to listen to you?"

She sighed, her eyes widening as she was taken aback by his attitude. "Well…" she drawled out slowly, her mind obviously trying to find some sort of retort she could use. And eventually she must have found what she wanted to say, because she responded, "Yes… you _will_."

He leaned against the door frame as he asked, "You think all that time as a dominatrix is really gonna help you out here?"

Giving him the first real smirk he'd seen all day, Cuddy replied, "Hardly." The smirk smoothly transitioned into a bared grin that borderlined wolfish. "You see, when I had your apartment cleaned, I made sure all of your drugs – Vicodin, alcohol, cigarettes, _morphine_ – were destroyed. Your porn, too," she added as an afterthought. "So, yeah, I'm thinking you'll listen to the one person who writes your prescriptions, decides when you're healthy enough to work again, _and_ has the only set of breasts you currently have access to."

Alarm bells mixing with the already oppressive tones he thought he heard, it was immediately apparent that _this_ would be so much worse than he anticipated. The time spent in the hospital wishing he were dead or home even more a waste than he could have ever suspected, House was suddenly realizing there was no escaping what had happened.

Guilt and Cuddy wouldn't _ever_ let that happen.

He would never be free, able to rid himself of the consequences of _getting drunk_ – something that everyone else in the world seemed capable of doing.

And instead of jail time or a fine, which would have been the result of a DUI, House was faced with _this_.

Amber dead.

Wilson gone.

House's stash destroyed.

His collection of porn cleared out of his home, leaving a gaping hole in the shelves underneath his television.

Essentially everything House _liked _forcibly removed from his life, the only thing that seemed to have been added was _Cuddy_.

And what a consolation prize that _wasn't_.

His teeth gritted and bared, House bit out, "_Get out_."

But Cuddy didn't move an inch. Her head shaking slowly, she told him in a low voice, "No. You know I can't do that."

"_Yes_, you can," he replied. And when she still didn't move, House yelled, after a beat, "Get out!"

This time, she said nothing at all, didn't need to; the fact that she retreated further into the apartment, disappearing into the kitchen, said it all.

His gaze instinctively fell on her ass as she ignored him, and for a second, there was a pang of desire washing through him. But, of course, that went nowhere, his body too weak to do anything about it even if he really wanted to. Which he _didn't_, because, frankly, there was nothing less attractive to him than someone _ignoring _him.

From her the act so foreign, it took House a minute to react to the fact that it was happening. Instinctively waiting for her to come back with a taser or a cattle prod, he was surprised seconds later to hear her in his cupboards. The high-pitched clink of glass pinging against glass, he tried to block out the sound of Cuddy pulling a cup out of his cabinets.

By shouting.

"Get _the hell_ out!" Sounding not unlike a wild animal, a rabid dog shoved into the fighting ring without any warning, he was once again hastily losing control of himself. Blood and noise pounding, blaring, screeching in his ears, he could feel the adrenaline begin to pump steadily through his veins.

He shouted the two words again, just as he had done so at the hospital, only now his body pressed against the door and not lying on a bed. And just as he had ignored the other patients, Kutner, Cuddy, and everyone else then, so too was he forgetting that there were other people in the building. Other people who would care that he was screaming at the top of his lungs and pounding on the door with one of his closed fists.

His face turning red, he could feel his cheeks burning and brow sweating from exerting himself. At this rate, he dimly thought over the sound of his own voice, he wouldn't last long; he'd collapse under his own weight, head exploding with stars from the sound of his own voice.

But that didn't matter in that moment, _wouldn't_ matter if it meant getting rid of Cuddy once and for all. If shaking her off _permanently_, if forcing her to realize that he didn't want, need, or deserve her friendship were even remotely possible, then the price was worth it.

Whatever the cost might be.

His voice getting louder and louder before quickly going hoarse, he wasn't sure how long his shouting lasted. Long enough for his mouth to dry out and thigh to shake violently, it was, apparently, longer than it felt. The time feeling like mere seconds, he was almost surprised by his body slowly slumping against the door and easing down to the ground.

Suddenly, unceremoniously exhausted, he couldn't help but stop yelling. His eyes closing as his hands moved his thigh to a comfortable position, he realized he needed to get up and move towards the bedroom, lest he fall asleep on the floor.

Which he _really_ didn't want to do, because that would leave him more pain than he wanted to contemplate.

But the need for rest almost overwhelming, he couldn't find the energy to do it. Quietly staying where he was, he could hear Cuddy's heels on the floor, could hear her getting closer and closer. Her cool hand pressing against his heated forehead, he calmly listened to her, as she asked curiously, "Are you done?"

The question was one surely designed for little children who threw tantrums left and right, was one he should have been offended by. But, considering that he sort of _was_ acting like the brat screaming in the check out line for the candy bar, he couldn't help but let Cuddy's tone slide.

Too tired to fight even if he wanted to, House silently nodded his head.

"Okay," she murmured sympathetically. Pressing the cool glass into his hands, Cuddy told him, "Here. Drink this."

Taking his time, he slowly opened his eyes, the room's natural light feeling harsh to his aching head. Blinking as quickly as he could, House took a few seconds to adjust to the brightness. And as he did so, he finally noticed that Cuddy, in clothes different from the ones she'd entered the apartment in, had crouched down beside him.

Her eyes concerned, she repeated, "Go on. It's just water."

His gaze instinctively moved downward to cold cup in his hands. And, thinking that the taste of water might be nice, he obeyed. His grip tentative at best, he shakily drank from the slippery glass.

The cool liquid snaked down his esophagus and pooled in his stomach. Refreshing at first, the feeling quickly devolved into, gave way to a series of short cramps. The pain enough to make him reconsider the water all together, he was reluctant to do what Cuddy wanted when she held out a couple pills for him to take.

"Here," she said simply. "Time for your medicine." The assorted drugs on the whole larger than the Vicodin he regularly consumed, it was, he realized almost immediately, _not_ a good idea to dry swallow all of them. So that meant he'd have to drink the cold water, even if he wasn't sure he wanted to.

But what the hell, he thought, grabbing the pills from her hand. Maybe, if he were lucky, she had decided to poison him and put a stop to this volatile situation once and for all.

Of course, he conceded as he gulped the drugs and water down all at once, if that _was_ what she was doing, she was hiding it well. Raising one of her hands to his forehead, Cuddy wiped his sweat away with a cool palm, her touch gentle and slow.

The action mining feelings of longing he wished to ignore, House tried desperately to ignore what she was doing. His gaze sliding towards the hallway, he attempted to calculate whether or not he'd be able to make it to his bed.

And as if thinking the same thing, Cuddy asked, her hand dropping to her lap, "Think you can make it to the bedroom? Or should I get a pillow for –"

"No," he told her, interrupting her question with a vague answer. As tempting as it was to fall asleep exactly where he was, he would regret it the moment he woke up. His body a mass of aching wounds already, he _couldn't_ sleep on the uncomfortable, unyielding floor. And he told Cuddy as much.

"Okay," she said. Taking the glass of water away from him, she headed back towards the kitchen to get rid of the cup. The attempt to be clean clearly unnecessary in his mind, House was grateful for it nonetheless; the temporary reprieve gave him enough time to stand up without her help.

Not that he had much pride left, he realized almost immediately. Thanks to the aftermath of the deep brain stimulation, he really _shouldn't_ have cared about potentially needing Cuddy to help him stand up.

But given how pathetic a state he was in, he figured that… he might as well try to do as much as he could for himself, lest he depend on _her_ forever.

That thought in mind, House slowly made his way to the bedroom. Using the wall to guide him, he lumbered along alone until he was right outside his door; then Cuddy joined him, her hand on the small of his back guiding him.

His first instinct was to head straight towards his bed, which had been made, much to his dismay. The linens changed and neatly tucked under the mattress, it left no doubt in his mind that a). his stash under said mattress had been discovered and destroyed and b). the sheets would be tight and constricting around his thigh as they were now.

But she stopped him, her fingers curling around his bicep. "You need to change," she told him, letting go as soon as he'd stopped.

Cocking his head to watch her, he was annoyed as she grabbed clean pajamas for him. The act irritating for reasons he couldn't quite understand, he didn't know if it was the domesticity that bothered him or the fact that she presumed he couldn't do it on his own.

Maybe it was just the idea that _she_ hadn't even thought to ask for his permission that bothered him, he supposed.

"I can sleep in my clothes," he told her, as she rounded on him once more.

Shaking her head, Cuddy explained, "No, you can't. Because as much as I pride myself on maintaining a _clean_ hospital, I'm not taking any risks."

He shook his head, mimicking her. "I've been in the hospital longer than these clothes have. If you're worried about germs," he suggested. His voice turning as sarcastic as he could make it in his exhausted state, House said, "Maybe you should whip out the bleach."

"Well, I _had_ planned on a bath," she told him, sounding annoyed. "But you decided to waste that energy screaming at the top of your lungs. So instead, we're going to have to settle for changing your clothes and going to bed."

"You're no fun," he muttered tiredly, lazily taking his shirt off.

By the time his head hit the pillow (in a way that made Cuddy hiss his name and remind him, "Your head") he was exhausted. Too close to slumber to fight back, House could only find the energy to tell her, "The sheets are wrong."

Of course, it wasn't like he needed to say that; before the words had even finished rolling leisurely off his tongue, her hands had started to tug at the blankets around him.

Everything shifting underneath him, it was an oddly lulling sensation. Not unlike lounging on a boat or falling asleep in a car, there was something nice about it, he mused. Then again, maybe it was just nice to know that Cuddy knew exactly what he needed – or, more realistically, maybe it was just nice to be in his own damn bed.

That made more sense to his overtaxed mind. _That_ option seemed like a more acceptable reason, anyway.

Not that the reason really mattered at this point, he realized, because _apparently_ his motivation had no effect on anything.

Regardless of what _he_ wanted, Cuddy seemed determined to stay. Which was all that mattered, given that he was too weak to toss her out; he had no choice but to _let_ her do what she wanted.

And as he fell asleep, House couldn't help but think how ironic it all was. When he found himself drifting away from Wilson, House _always_, ultimately, seemed to move closer to Cuddy.

And yet…

That wasn't even remotely where he wanted to be.

_End (7/15)_


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Notes: First of all, I am so sorry for taking so long to update. I'd wanted to take a break for the holidays, forgetting how long it can take me to write these chapters. So I really do apologize, especially to Queen S of Randomness 016, viggochk, almostlikeTHElyn, AngelEyes10, Aishybashy, dlb42694, and xoTomWellingxo, because they left incredibly encouraging and wonderful reviews.

Just to clarify something xoTomWellingxo brought up: House's emotions are a product of his physical state. Individuals with traumatic brain injury to the temporal area often cause irritability and aggression (among other things), which we're sort of seeing. But also, I'm playing a little bit with the possibility of House suffering from postconcussive syndrome, which can cause headache, sensitivity to light or noise, fatigue, tinnitus, depression, anxiety, etc. So hopefully that gives everyone a bit more of an idea of where I'm going with this.

Thank you to my beta for all of her help. This chapter is dedicated to lhoma320 for leaving the most wonderfully supportive reviews. I really appreciate it.

_Disclaimer: The show isn't mine._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Eight: Man and Ape  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_The affinities of all the beings of the same class have sometimes been represented by a great tree… As buds give rise by growth to fresh buds, and these, if vigorous, branch out and overtop on all a feebler branch, so by generation I believe it has been with the Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth, and covers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications." – Charles Darwin on evolution, 1859_

He woke up to a dark, empty room, moonlight casting odd shapes and shadows onto one of the walls. Hot and sweating, parched and hungry, House groaned as he realized that he would not be able to fall back to sleep. His stomach rumbled almost as audibly as the rest of him had, almost as loudly as the noise rang in his ear and the ache screamed in his thigh.

Instinctively House reached out to his nightstand. A bottle of Vicodin and bourbon usually at the edge of his fingertips, it made him sigh when he came up empty handed.

That sucked, he lamented, trying hard to remember if he'd polished off that particular stash before the accident. But his head ached, and the haze his newly awoken mind was in made it impossible to think clearly. And instead of coming up with any real answer, he remembered something else:

_Cuddy_.

In her new role as a hotter Nancy Reagan, she'd said she'd taken everything.

Which meant it was possible, if not _probable_, that there were no stashes left for him to pillage. And _that_ meant pain. _That_ meant no sleep, no movement, no reprieve from the hot ache that always threatened to consume him.

Fear gnawing at his senses, it was certain now that he wouldn't be sleeping until he had the chalky pills in his hand – or rather in his belly. So, determined, he swung his good leg easily off of the bed.

He immediately decided not to search his room or the bathroom; those were the most likely locations Cuddy would have checked, House thought. And while there might have been a couple bottles of Vicodin in the apartment still squirreled away, he couldn't believe that they were in the most obvious places to hide drugs. Relief would be in the least likely spots, in the places that House himself probably rarely paid attention to.

And, lumbering out into the hallway, he realized that there were only a few hidey-holes in the apartment that qualified. In the aluminum tin of peppermint tea in the kitchen cabinet, under the thin layer of bedding in the now-dead Steve McQueen's cage, or in the metal box on top of the bookshelf – if there were anything left, it would be in one of those spots. And if there _was_ anything left, House was determined to find it.

But that determination fell short the second he stepped into the living room. Because even though the room was kind of dark, his eyes had adjusted, and he could see – Cuddy was still here.

He'd literally _forgotten_ that she had said that she was staying.

Oh, his memory was still intact enough, his mind working just well enough for him to remember that she was… supposed to be here? No, that didn't sound right, because where she was _supposed_ to be was her _own_ place. She was _not_ supposed to be _here_.

And frankly her presence, even in the dark, was impossible to miss. Her pale skin practically glowed against the dark backdrop of the chaise. Her face, only slightly obscured by a few stray loose curls, was tucked into the hem of the chenille blanket covering her body, and even with the afghan over her mouth, he swore he could hear her soft breathing.

So too was he absolutely sure that he could smell her perfume in the air. The pungent scent just foreign enough to tickle his nose, House scowled as he stalked toward the kitchen. He'd get rid of her soon enough, he reasoned, beginning his search for Vicodin. He'd toss her out, and he'd _relish_ doing it, but that would have to come later.

His pain had to be dealt with first.

As it always did and probably always would, thanks to the choices Stacy and Cuddy had made without him.

His right hand instinctively trailed down to his thigh, to what had been taken from him. Fingertips lightly pressing into the soft cotton of his pajama pants, he allowed himself a second to give into the sharp pain and resentment he was feeling. Letting it all just… _be_, he allowed each wave of pain beat against his senses. Unsure, even after all these years, as to whether it hurt more to give into the ache or deny it, House stood, frustrated, in the cool kitchen.

The last four steps to the kitchen cabinet that possibly had the Vicodin seemed so far now. Seemed farther than his leg could take, anyway, he lamented. But unless he wanted to be in more pain…

There was no other way.

But he'd barely lifted a foot when he heard her say groggily, "What are you doing?"

His step faltered a little, the momentary shift in his movement announcing that he'd heard her. And House was aware of that fact, even though he chose to ignore her; somehow he thought that doing that was far more biting than any sarcastic remark he could make.

And within seconds, it was obvious that he'd guessed right. As he opened the kitchen cabinet to see if his stash were still untouched, Cuddy asked, "House?"

Snatching the tea container, he could tell, just by holding it, that there was something other than peppermint and black tea leaves inside. He smiled to himself, sighed with relief. "Making tea," House lied, trying to keep an affect of carelessness in his tones.

"At one in the morning?"

His reply was easy. "I was thirsty."

His shaky fingers easily unscrewed the top, the drugs within reach. House could already tell that his body instinctively knew that relief was coming; already he felt better, the ache in his head and thigh waning a little.

And it was sick, he realized, that it should be that way, that he should react to the drugs before they were even in his system. But the pain had _made_ him that way – and maybe _that_ was what was really sick about the whole thing: that he should be so _afraid_ of the pain that the mere allure off escape offered him the tiniest measure of peace.

Doesn't matter, House told himself, violently shoving the thought aside in the same manner he pushed aside the tea leaves. His addiction was what it was; there was no point in fighting it anymore, he reasoned, and as long as the pills took the pain away, as long as there were still pills for him to take…

It wasn't a problem.

Frankly, it wouldn't have even been a problem if it weren't for the idiotic notion accepted by everyone around him that he should handle his pain with a smile. That he should _have_ to hide the drugs around the office and apartment _at all_ was annoying, but not nearly as nagging as the idea that there had been days – and probably would be more days – where somebody decided he didn't need the Vicodin.

But it didn't matter, he told himself. His index finger hitting a pill he'd wrapped in cellophane and tea leaves, the anger rushed out of his body. What was the point in being pissed at his friends when he _still_ managed to outsmart them?

It was such an addict thing to do, he conceded – taking pills and spending at least an hour to individually wrap each one, dip it in glue and loose tea leaves so that nobody would see them. But then it also seemed like an incredibly _worthwhile_ thing to do, considering he was now about to benefit from it.

Well, as soon as Cuddy left anyway.

But almost as though she was sensing something was up, she stayed where she was. "You're making tea," she repeated doubtfully.

House rolled his eyes and finally turned to look at her. Careful to keep the pill in his hand out of her sight, he snapped, "That's what I said."

"You shouldn't have caffeine."

"That's why it's _herbal_ tea."

Her eyes narrowed, and there was suspicion in her voice when she pointed out, "You haven't heated any water."

"Oh, you caught me. I'm actually funding terrorism and plotting a gang rape. Like God, I like to communicate through tea leaves."

The sarcasm was enough, it seemed, to distract her. Because instead of continuing the fight, Cuddy merely shot him a dark look. Her bare feet lightly padding on the linoleum toward the stove, she grabbed the tea kettle. As she filled the metal container with water, she mentioned carefully, "You know, I thought you didn't like tea."

He wasn't paying attention to her, not really anyway, by that point. His brow knitted together as he began to silently unwrap the little gift between his thumb and forefinger, he was too focused to offer Cuddy any retort.

And it was _that_, he would suppose later on, that made her give him a second look. No sarcastic remark, no biting insult – yeah, House would think, _that_ made him suspicious.

But at the time, his fingernail was just beginning to tear away at the protective coating on the pill. And he could see the peach color of the round pill, could tell that what he had in his hand was _not_ Vicodin.

A smile appearing on his face, he didn't remember getting his hands on the morphine in his grasp. Which didn't really make any sense, because part of him could vaguely recall taking the time to painstakingly wrap each one.

But he shrugged the confusion off; it _really_ didn't matter now, he decided.

House began to pop the pill into his mouth… and then nearly dropped it on the floor when Cuddy spun around, her voice shrill and loud. "_Morphine_?" she snarled, the word echoing off the walls.

In all honesty, he would have smirked if not for her tone, which made his brain feel as though it were being smushed against his skull. Now in even more pain than before, he was helpless to move, helpless to do anything.

And that was all he needed to do in order for Cuddy to stomp forward and quickly snatch the tin and pills away from him. "_Why_ would you _risk_ your recovery by –"

"I'm in pain," House snapped back, his fingers trying to make a grab for the drugs. "I know you _enjoy_ that fact, but I _don't_." He took an uneven step towards her, but she did not relent.

"That's not what this is about, House," she said, dismayed, moving away from him.

"Oh, come _on_." His gaze headed upwards for a moment.

His eyes focused on the finite cracks in the ceiling, he told her, maybe to allay whatever doubts she had, "I'm not going to overdose. I'm not going to operate heavy machinery, Mommy. I'll be a good boy."

She shook her head. "You have a _brain_ injury," she reminded him firmly. "You've had a heart attack, surgery, and a seizure. You could rescue a hoard of puppies and babies from a burning building, and I _still_ wouldn't let you have this." As if to prove the point, she rushed toward the sink.

Her footsteps somehow louder than they should have been, she was too fast to stop. And he could only watch in horror as Cuddy quickly dumped the contents of the container and the single unwrapped pill down the drain. Her hand quickly flipping the faucet and garbage disposal on, any hopes he had of floating away on a morphine-laced cloud were promptly dashed.

The grinding noise pushing him over the edge, House shouted loudly, "You _idiot_. What do you expect me to do now? Pray to Jesus? Taste the rainbow? Pet puppies to take away my pain?" His cheeks burning, he could feel the veins in his neck tensing. "You think everything can be cured by a sunny disposition and your _guilt_."

She turned the garbage disposal off. Her body spinning around to face him, her hands ended up on her hips. A look of disbelief flitting across her face, Cuddy began to say tersely, "If you want –"

"Oh, but it's not about what _I_ want," he interrupted angrily. "This is _obviously_ all about what _you_ want. Baby the cripple, teach Greggie poo the dangers of drugs – this has _nothing_ to do with me."

But then she did the most unlikely thing he could even imagine. One of her hands dipping into her pajama pockets, she pulled out a bottle of pills. There was a faint rattle of the drugs smacking against their plastic confines. And the noise was slight enough that most people would have missed it. For him, though…

It was the most welcome sound House could think of.

Feeling not unlike a dog or cat running at the sound of the can opener, he stood there silently, obediently, waiting for her to take pity on him. Or more like _hoping_ she would take pity on him, because, at this point, he couldn't be sure that she'd give him anything.

Thankfully though, Cuddy sighed and opened the bottle in her hands. As she plucked a pill out, she told him gently, "I know that you think – that you honestly _believe_ I'm only here to torture you."

"Destroying all the morphine in the place _does_ lend credence to the idea, yeah."

She frowned. "Right now, you are on… almost a dozen medications. I realize, House, that the idea of toxic drug interactions doesn't scare you, but _I_ am not taking that risk."

Cuddy closed the distance between them. With each step she took, House could see the sadness in her eyes. A melancholy flecking her grayish irises, it was a feeling he knew all too well. And seeing his own misery reflected in her own mood, knowing that what had happened was affecting her to, he couldn't help but glance away, the movement jerky and obvious; he didn't want to see anymore.

But ignoring her was impossible, not when she clasped his hand with her cool fingers. A pill wedged between the flesh of their palms, he instantly jerked his head back around and glanced down. "I know you think you have everything figured out," she said coolly. "But you're not right about this; you're not right about _me_. If –"

"What is this?" he asked, popping the pill into his mouth. "A bribe? Something to prove that you're really not all that bad?" His words were indignant even to his own ears, and although he had no intention of apologizing or taking back what he had just said… he couldn't ignore the niggling feeling that he was being an unusually large ass to her.

"You're in pain. I'm giving you your medicine," she explained dryly. Adding a tiny amount of bitterness to her next words, Cuddy said roughly, "The _right_ medication, so that you don't die in your sleep."

"Oh, relax, Nancy," House replied with a scowl. "One pill of morphine isn't going to –"

She shook her head so quickly that he got dizzy just looking at her. "You don't even know what medications you're taking," she snapped, her voice high-pitched with emotion. "You have _no_ idea what that morphine would or wouldn't have done."

He could feel his gaze on her soften a little. The truth spoken to him one he hadn't even considered, it was one he had no desire to deny. Because… Cuddy was right; he didn't have any idea what medications she'd put him on. He could barely remember the shape and size of each pill, much less what they actually were, and all of a sudden, an adverse reaction to the morphine didn't seem unlikely.

Still, House wasn't ready to call it a night. Agitation continued to course through his system hotly, and he couldn't, not even if he wanted to, walk away calmly. "Then give me what I _should_ be taking," he told her irritably, his hand reaching out.

"I don't think so."

"Why not? Don't want me to take the morphine, fine. But what you have in your hand is Cuddy-approved." But she slipped the drugs back into her pocket anyway, and he scoffed in response. "I see. So then you just don't trust me."

She looked at him sadly, with dismay. Her voice wavered as she said, "You got your hands on a bottle of _morphine_ from who knows where. And then you _hid_ the pills in a container of tea, so that no one would take it from you." Folding her arms across her chest, Cuddy admitted, "You are an _addict_, House, and I _don't_ trust you – not with this."

Her eyes became increasingly – suspiciously – bright while she stumbled over the last words. And House wouldn't have been surprised if she'd started to cry then and there, although for the life of him, he couldn't understand _why_ she would want to or feel the need to. Because _surely_ by now, she would have realized, _accepted_, that he was an addict.

But before he could consider the matter any further, she interrupted with a wave of her hand, "That's beside the point, I guess." Shaking her head, she sounded much colder, stronger when she spoke once more. "You've had head trauma; you've had brain surgery. Even if I could trust you, I wouldn't right now." Cuddy took a deep breath before telling him, "Until I know for sure that you'll remember when you last took a pill – until I can trust your memory – you're not going to have control over –"

"So what am I supposed to do?" he interrupted viciously. "Come crying to you every time something hurts? Say, 'Mommy, I have a boo boo'?"

"You'll get medication at regular intervals," she explained, one of her eyebrows slightly raised as though to say, "I know the idea is foreign to you."

House scowled. "Well, since my _pain_ refuses to keep a schedule – "

Repeating herself, Cuddy said, "You'll get medication at regular intervals." But this time, she added at the end, "But if you can't wait, yes, come crying to me. Mama will kiss it and make it all better," she told him with a mocking pout on her lips.

His retort was immediate. "In that case, I seem to have hurt my penis, and –"

She scowled. "Go to bed."

The order was one he would have refused to obey if not for the exhaustion that was wearing on his resolve. The need for sleep overriding his disagreeable nature, House simply turned around and slowly began to head back towards the bedroom.

His feet shuffled unevenly, his limp more pronounced than usual. That often happened when he was tired, and right about now, he was as exhausted as he had ever been.

And he had barely done anything, he thought bitterly.

That shouldn't have surprised him. The accident, a heart attack, brain stimulation – any one of those things would have left his body in desperate need of sleep, and it stood to reason that the three events combined would make him exponentially tired. But nonetheless, it seemed… shocking that his body could be so feeble, so ill-equipped, even after all these years, to deal with physical pain and the irritation Cuddy always brought with her.

As his head hit the pillow, House told himself that tomorrow he _would_ do better. And almost immediately he realized what his goal was going to be:

Get rid of _her_.

Because right now, he was tired, and yet there was _no_ chance of him being able to sleep; the muffled sounds of Cuddy moving around in the kitchen, most likely searching for drugs, kept shoving him back into consciousness. And really, it wasn't fair for her to claim that _she_ knew what was best for him when she couldn't even _shut up_ long enough for him to get some sleep.

But there was no stopping her; he was too tired to move, too exhausted to put in the minimum exertion of yelling at her. Which meant that his rage simply stalled inside of him. His teeth clenched together, it was all he could do at the moment besides pray for her to shut up, besides hope that she would exhaust herself quickly and that morning would find its way to him as slowly as possible.

In the end, morning announced itself at an especially early hour, the sun's rays forcibly radiating through the drawn curtains. The smell of vomit being warmed through by the light attacked his senses, and Wilson awoke with a loud groan.

He felt awful, as though his body had turned itself inside out and been hung on a meat rack to dry in the hours he had slept. He was lying on top of the sheets; his limbs spread out on the comforter, he could only figure that he'd been too drunk to fully get in bed. And either way, it was okay, because he'd sweat through his clothes anyway.

The fabric of his jeans and t-shirt clung to him as though they were made out of elastic. Sweat had collected into fully formed beads dotting the length of his forehead, and his recently opened eyes stung with the few droplets that had slithered past his lashes.

He felt gross.

He _was_ gross – _and_ hung over.

And laying in his own vomit, he slowly began to realize.

The acrid smell had been noticeable the second he'd awoken. The taste had lingered in the back of his throat. But only now did Wilson understand: he was lying _in_ it. Soupy chunks of who-the-hell-knew-what pooled on the mattress next to him, the outer edges of his puke beginning to dry.

As he stood up, careful not to stick his limbs anywhere near the mess he'd made, his head pounded. He'd been drinking pretty much non-stop since Amber had died, only taking a break for her funeral (she had deserved as much if not more). But even with his recent reincarnation into _House_, Wilson realized his binge last night had been particularly bad. So horrible, in fact, that, turning around, he _knew_ he had gone too far.

Vomit all over the bed, the lingering scent of Amber in the sheets completely overpowered now by the smell of his own _weakness, yes_, he had gone too far. Because now the bedding needed to be _changed_; he needed to _destroy_ one of the last few things he had of _her_.

The very thought of doing that made his stomach clench painfully. And knowing that it could have been avoided if he'd been just a _little _more careful…

It _killed_ him.

Because he'd always believed that Amber was too good for him, but now it also seemed as though he weren't even good enough to _grieve_ for her. Really, if he were being honest with himself, he could admit that it seemed as though he had never been of _any _use to her, never would be, and now didn't even _deserve_ to be.

The proof on him and right in front of him, it was all he needed to see to know that:

He was the last person who should be in charge of her memory.

And suddenly feeling out of place, feeling as though he was tainting everything in the room, Wilson couldn't help but remember that _this_ had never been his. The bed maybe, but everything else – from the paint on the walls to the glasses in the kitchen cabinets – that had all been hers.

Which made him little more than an intruder; he was a trespasser, the odd man out even in the place that he'd thought had become his. He didn't belong here without Amber. These things surrounding him weren't his, no more than the apartment was. His name wasn't even on the lease; that was something they hadn't even _talked_ about, something _he_ hadn't brought up, because he didn't want to scare her away.

Looking around the room, Wilson thought with a sigh that it had worked.

He hadn't scared her away.

But in the end, that didn't matter, because she had left anyway.

And now it was his turn to leave, the empty apartment and his powerful memories no longer enough to keep him here. As Wilson headed towards the front door, he rationally understood that there was nothing, save for Amber coming back to life, that could keep him in this two-bedroom tomb. As much as he liked the layout and the location, there was just too much here that he could destroy. Too much he _would_ destroy, he corrected himself, in an attempt to forget how much he wished…

House had been the one to die instead.

The front door clicking shut with a sense of finality, Wilson could only believe that Amber was changing him, _had_ changed him… and not necessarily for the better.

As he headed to his car, he didn't look back.

Around the same time, Cuddy finally stopped searching the apartment for drugs. House didn't know if she found anything; he hoped she hadn't, but as there was no shout of glee or groan of frustration, he had no idea what she might have turned up. Not that it really mattered at that moment, of course, because he was so tired that, the second she stopped making noise, he fell asleep.

His eyes opening once more hours later, House was immediately taken aback by the fact that he was…

_Crying_.

His vision was blurred, his cheeks feeling wet and hot, and it was all he could do to keep the keening noise from escaping the back of his throat. A sudden outpour of emotion he didn't know he had in him, there was no reason for it; there was nothing to explain much less justify _this_, he thought bitterly.

He'd been dreaming about Wilson – at least he thought he had been. His head already ached, and it was hard to recall what he'd imagined only moments previously, of course. But House was sure Wilson had popped into his mind; he was convinced of it. Because despite the fog that had seemed to permanently settle inside of his battered skull, he could vaguely recall his friend's face. He could still grasp at the edges of the distant memory of dark, narrowed eyes and softly accusing words.

And yet that didn't really do him any good, because try as he might, House couldn't recollect the context of any of those things. If they'd just been arguing over who was hotter in their prime, Jenna Jamison or Tracy Lords, or something far more insidious… he just didn't know. Naturally, House realized it didn't matter either way; no matter what the dream was, no matter what they were doing…

Waking up with _tears_ in his eyes was unacceptable.

Period.

Scratch that, he thought, cocking his head to the side. Crying _ever_ was unacceptable, was something that should have been reserved for people like _Cameron_ and _Cuddy _when they saw sick puppies. It was _not_ something he should be doing. Nor would it _ever_ be a behavior he embraced, because someone who had dedicated themselves to _reason _and _rationality_, he argued,should have been above that.

But he wasn't.

Apparently.

And he wasn't sure what pissed him off more – that this part of himself existed at all or that it had been brought out without his knowledge or consent. Somehow he thought it was the latter that made him angrier. Because it was one thing to… have emotions, but it was completely different to have them suddenly, and for _no_ reason, pop up; that just made the already offensive act that much worse.

But there wasn't much he could do about that now, House lamented with a sigh. He didn't like to admit defeat, so he told himself that he really _wasn't_ doing that by accepting there was nothing he could do about the tears that he'd already shed. It wasn't like he could force them back into his tear ducts by hanging upside down off the bed.

Although…

_That_ might be worth attempting, he decided, considering it would annoy Cuddy to no end.

His own little Betty Ford (with a much tighter ass, of course) still here, House remembered all at once that he had dedicated himself last night to getting rid of her. Figuring that was preferable to sitting in bed with tears in his eyes, he immediately worked hard to pull himself together.

It was easier than it probably should have been… easier than it _would_ have been if there were an actual reason for the display of emotion. And there was probably something to be said for having a goal in mind that made the task a simple one. Not just sitting around and hoping his spirits would lift, he had a purpose.

Or maybe not a purpose, he conceded, because irritating Cuddy hardly seemed to qualify. But annoying the hell out of her, getting her to _leave_ – it _was_ something to do, something to focus on. And with all of his inexplicable melancholy channeling itself into potent anger, it didn't take long to appear calm.

Pushing the covers down to the foot of the bed with his toes, he used his hands in the meantime to wipe his face clean. Snot and tears became smeared onto his palm, but that wasn't a problem; House quickly used the top sheet as a towel. After all, it wasn't like Nursey _wasn't_ going to make a fuss over changing the bedding anyway.

And when he was done drying his face and hands, he looked as though nothing had been wrong with him only minutes previously. He didn't glance at a mirror, of course, but he was sure that he looked normal anyway. Given the amount of times he'd needed to lie to his parents, patients, and Cuddy over the years, he'd learned how to tell what his face looked like… and how to make it appear as though he were absolutely innocent of any wrong doing.

That had been a necessity in order to lie convincingly.

And although this didn't really qualify as lying, he hardly wanted _her_ to see that something was wrong with him… no more than she already had anyway. The added caveat one he hated, House despised that she had seen him like _this_. Not because he was embarrassed, he told himself as he stood up, but because she had had _no_ right.

Truly, if there was one thing that bothered him about all of this, it wasn't Amber or Wilson, he argued mentally; it was the fact that Cuddy had intruded into his life so _damn_ far. It was the fact that she had invaded every last bit of privacy he'd had under the assumption that _he_ wanted her there.

Which meant that if there was _one_ thing he wanted to do now, it was to show her how much he _didn't_ want her around.

He would show her just how wrong she was.

But that was all easier said than done. Because, if anything, the second he saw her, House couldn't help but think she was doing everything in her power _not_ to piss him off. The doses of medication he needed were neatly lined on the butcher block along with a glass of milk that was, thankfully, cold. And he was more than a little pleased to see an analgesic in the mix, even more pleased by the fact that he didn't have to _ask_ (not that he should have to, part of his mind whispered bitterly).

"I'm making lunch," Cuddy offered in a monotone voice. Her back to him, her head was bent so she could look down at the stovetop.

It smelled good, whatever it was; House had no idea what she was making, but honestly, he couldn't have cared less what it was. His stomach had been ravenous for food since one in the morning, and it was easily sometime after noon now.

Which meant that, at this point, he was ready to eat anything she set in front of him, even if it was her sugar-free, fun-free, bland cuisine that seemed somehow like a step _down_ from the hospital food.

The scent of ginger and garlic (and he thought shrimp but couldn't be sure) filled his nostrils as she bustled about the kitchen. His mind focused on the meal about to be served, House swallowed his medicine without a thought, without even considering ways he could irritate her. His plan was stalling, and part of him was aware of that fact if resigned to it. Because all that mattered now was whatever was cooking on the stovetop. And if the price for getting a free meal was being… not entirely unkind to her for a few minutes, he was willing to accept that.

House was less accepting of her suggestion; her back still turned to him, Cuddy spoke up once more, "You should consider calling Wilson… _talking_ to him." Her voice sounded shaky to him, but he ignored it, instead focusing on the way her ass filled in her tight jeans.

"Thanks for specifying," he replied bitterly, part of him lamenting how unfair it was for her to be _so_ bangable and just as equally annoying. "Cause if you didn't tell me to _talk_ when I dial his number, I'd just breathe _real_ heavy –"

One of her hands banged lightly on the stove. "I'm serious. You need to talk to him."

As he finished the rest of the milk, House retorted, "And _you_ need to lay off the bon-bons; your ass is _huge_." He set the glass down with an audible clink. "And I'm serious about that as well."

"You can be as sarcastic as you want," she told him as she began to search the cabinets for plates. "But that's not going to fix anything."

"You always did underestimate my wit."

Folding her arms across her chest, Cuddy stopped what she was doing and turned to him. "You like to make racist and sexist comments to everyone you come across for no apparent reason. That's not wit," she informed him. "That's being an obnoxious ass, and _that_ isn't going to help you with Wilson. You need to apologize to him."

He was taken aback by the accusation he thought he heard in her words. His eyes narrowing on her, House supplied knowingly, "You think this is my fault."

"Of course not." There was an honesty in her eyes that he couldn't quite understand. "I don't blame you," Cuddy told him gently. "But you should apologize to Wilson anyway."

"Why?"

"Because he needs to see that you_ care_, House." She looked at him as though this were all quite self-explanatory.

"By lying to him," House said incredulously.

"By showing him that you understand what he's going through, that you want to –"

Lumbering towards the refrigerator, he interrupted, "I'll send him a fruit basket then." He grabbed the milk off the top shelf, pretending very hard not to notice all of the fresh produce and food that he hadn't purchased. Or pretending very hard not to care, anyway, a voice inside of his reassuring that he could throw it all away (or not) as soon as she left.

Turning back to her, he waited for her to respond to him. But she didn't say anything else about Wilson. Instead she sighed. Literally throwing her hands up in the air, Cuddy told him, "All right. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes."

He didn't reply to that, instead pouring himself another glass of milk in deliberate silence. If he'd had little interest in dealing with her before, he was now completely against having _any_ conversation with her. His whole body rebelling against the idea, against Cuddy herself, he quickly took his cup and left the room.

As he settled on the couch, House told himself that maybe (a very _small_ maybe, but a maybe nonetheless) he could have accepted her being here. He could have potentially… gotten used to her being around, used to her cooking and cleaning and providing illicit drugs. But now that she was also taking it upon herself to give him _advice_, as though she was any better with people than he was, he could feel his anger grow.

His cheeks burned with a hot intensity. Fury snaked around his pounding heart, poisoning the blood that pulsed forcefully in his ears and skull.

She had no right.

_None_.

The thought one that was almost uncharacteristic for him, it was also one he could not deny any longer. Because, throughout the years, he had let her make whatever assumptions she'd wanted to make about him. She'd wanted to believe that he was little more than an ass, and he'd let her. She'd wanted to believe that the Vicodin wasn't something he absolutely needed, and he hadn't corrected her then. And now she thought – he didn't even know what the hell she thought – maybe that she had some sort of "insight" into who he was.

But she didn't have a _clue_, House snarled to himself, the hair on his arms sticking up straight. She didn't have any _idea_ what Wilson wanted or needed right now, and maybe House didn't either, but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was this:

Wilson didn't want to hear from him.

_Ever_.

And while House's heart seemed to tighten at the mere thought, it was a reality he was resigned to, a reality he could slowly, at _his_ own pace, incorporate into his life. Letting the situation gradually filter into his consciousness, he could accept that Wilson wanted out.

But apparently _that_ wasn't good enough for Cuddy.

She clearly did not see what he did; she didn't see that his friendship with Wilson was completely beyond repair. And as House had admitted in the past, he normally _liked_ that ridiculous sense of idealism, if only because he had benefited and capitalized on it by convincing her that hiring him was a good idea.

But that was different than_ this_. This situation far worse than he could describe, her inability to accept defeat, to accept that she couldn't fix everyone and everything, now was cloying and unbearable. Because now it meant listening to her idiotically suggest that he _call_ Wilson, as though House needed his friend (former friend?) to confirm his suspicions.

Swallowing a sip of milk with difficulty, he wondered what exactly Cuddy was thinking. That an apology would be enough? That a simple "oh, I'm so sorry for killing the bitch, but lets stay BFF" would work? That he could say _anything_ to Wilson that would suddenly make Amber's death seem like a little mistake?

He didn't know exactly how Cuddy was rationalizing it in her mind, and frankly he didn't care; all he knew was that taking her advice would be a mistake, one that would only force him to confront Wilson's absence sooner than he could handle.

And yet…

House could feel his gaze hesitantly sliding over to the phone. His hands stayed firmly wrapped around the glass of milk, but that didn't matter. It _couldn't_ matter when compared to the fact that he could practically hear himself wondering whether or not he should dial Wilson's number.

Oh, he still maintained that Cuddy was wrong – that nothing he could say would make any difference. And he was little more than aware that if he did call Wilson, it would be to confirm what House already suspected: that they no longer had a friendship. The equivalent of ripping a Band-Aid off, a phone call now would only remove any doubt House had about where he stood with Wilson. And as someone who had always valued knowledge and truth over everything else, House realized that he should want to end any speculation.

Which maybe part of him did, but on the whole, he didn't, and to have Cuddy bring the possibility up only served to amplify the conflict going on within him, only made his restless mind all the more active. And at this point, it went without saying, as anger roiled hotly through him, that her pushing him only made him want to push her just as hard back.

Harder even, if he could; the more she wanted him to do something, the more she insisted on being in his life, the more he was determined to reject it and her. He'd never automatically accepted her help or her judgment, and he wasn't going to start now, he told himself.

She could try all she wanted, but she wouldn't succeed. He wouldn't budge, wouldn't take her advice, because he _was_ capable of doing this alone. As much as she thought differently, he didn't need her to get him through this.

He'd cracked his skull, had a heart attack. Okay, and there'd been the surgery and his coma. But he could push through all of that, contrary to her opinion that he couldn't do anything himself.

And, yes, he'd lost Wilson. But he could get through that too, if only she didn't _insist_ on him confronting Wilson, confronting the ugly truth before he was ready.

The rant began to build inside of his head, pound against the confines of his skull. And he was sure it could have gone on longer, but at that moment, Cuddy accidentally bumped his knee.

Her body hunching over slightly to put a plate of food on the coffee table in front of him, she was too busy trying not to spill, nudging his bad leg in the process. A distinct ping of pain rushed through him, eliciting a loud "Get the hell off me" from the back of his throat.

She instinctively stepped away, her head snapping to focus on his face as she moved clumsily. Imploring him for understanding, Cuddy swallowed hard. "House, I –"

She was reaching out to touch him, her fingers stretched out for his hand, but he pushed it away. Violently so, he shoved her hand back, the slap of skin against skin popping loudly in the heated silence of the room. His voice sounding unrecognizable with fury, he growled, "Don't touch me."

"I'm sorry," she apologized in earnest. "I didn't mean to –"

"Just… get _away_ from me." He had no patience for apologies, no desire to hear one even if he did have the stomach for it. Her eyes quickly assessing him, he thought she understood that fact. Because instead of fighting him on the matter, instead of demanding to know what was wrong, she simply nodded her head.

"Okay." Her voice was gentle and sympathetic, and dropping the conversation then and there, Cuddy turned and left the room, retreating to the kitchen once more.

But even so, it took a while for whatever had reared up inside of him to subside once more. His heart and head pounding long after she'd left, he sat in silence, blindly groping for some sort of peace of mind.

Of course that didn't happen. His irritation ignited and fueled by reasons he didn't fully understand, it was hard to quell that anger. As much as the doctor inside of him could recognize that all of this was probably related to fracturing his skull, that fact didn't make life any easier. Because he couldn't stop himself from being pissed, couldn't figure out what would make him this angry, this _miserable_ next.

Which made him a prisoner in his own body in a way he had never been before. Because even with his leg, even with the inability to do all of the things he'd loved to do… he still had his mind.

When he'd been shot and he'd hallucinated Wilson, his friend had said that after the infarction, House had made everything intellectual. He'd made it so nothing physical mattered, and maybe that was true. And if it were true…

Then what did House have now?

His physical abilities had been stolen from him.

His best friend was gone…

And so was his mind, if he didn't figure out some way to stop _this_ inability to control every emotion flitting through his skull.

The thought was a heavy one that made his shoulders sag. If he didn't improve soon, if his mind was gone, then he really would have _nothing_.

But before he could even come up with a course of action, Cuddy interrupted him. She was coming out of the kitchen, her voice echoing slightly off of the linoleum. "Do you want any…"

Her voice trailed off as she moved in front of the couch. Because it was then that she could see: he hadn't taken a single bite, much to her apparent dismay. "More," she finished in a disappointed tone.

As though he had willfully decided _not_ to eat, he thought scornfully. Who was he – Thirteen?

But even as he realized anything approaching an eating disorder wasn't his thing, a part of him couldn't help but understand why Cuddy would think the untouched plate was by choice; not eating to annoy the hell out of her _did_ seem like something he would do, he conceded.

Which meant, he thought with a sigh, that he was in for a lecture.

"I know I'm not your favorite person right now," she began to say in exasperation.

"_Right_. The problem is I don't like you this _second_." He rolled his eyes. "Because any other day… you'd be the wind beneath my wings. My _rock_," he said with a false sentimentality.

She smirked briefly but kept her reply serious. "Don't do this to yourself. Don't _not_ eat my food, because you're a stubborn ass intent on punishing me."

"As enticing as the whole fasting-to-piss-you-off idea sounds," he conceded. "It _is_ possible for me to make decisions _not_ revolving around your rather large ass."

Folding her arms across her chest, Cuddy demanded to know, "Then why weren't you –"

"I was thinking," he replied honestly. "I understand the concept is foreign to you, but –"

"Just shut up and eat."

Sitting up and leaning forward, House easily speared a pink shrimp off of the plate. But he held off on eating it so that he could inform her, "You know, any future comments from you on my bedside manner are now officially null and void."

"If you ever have a patient as annoying as you are being right now, then by all means, be as –"

"I'm annoying," he said suspiciously, reading between the lines. "I'm annoying," he repeated, shaking his head lightly as though he had to be hallucinating again. "Well, if _that_ isn't the _annoying_ pot –"

"Eat your lunch," she ordered calmly, retreating to the kitchen once more.

And this time, House couldn't stop himself from listening. As nauseous as the idea of following Cuddy's orders made him, he _was_ hungry, and she was right about one thing:

Even if he hated her right now, even if he wanted to toss her out on the street, he couldn't sacrifice his own health, such as it was, to do it. Because at this very moment, House didn't think he needed someone to help him around the house. But he recognized that… he was on the precipice of that line between capable cripple and incredibly pathetic cripple. And if he pushed Cuddy too hard, pushed _himself_ too hard to get rid of her, the result would be that she'd stick around much longer than she'd originally planned.

He would have to toe the line. Chewing on a piece of carrot, House knew he would have to be selective in what he did, carefully decide what matters were worth irritating her over and which were best to ignore.

_Behaving_ was out of the question, but he could – _would _– find a balance between being an ass and doing what was right for his own body.

Determination began to course through him, acting like cool water to the burning anger that had been so palpable only moments before. And for the first time since he'd woken up, he was able to concentrate on the task at hand.

Silently he finished his lunch, which was surprisingly good, he thought to himself. Although he had no intention of telling Cuddy that he liked it, he would allow himself to be secretly pleased that the steamed shrimp with vegetables he was eating were good – far better than the Chinese food he probably would have ordered for himself if he were alone, anyway.

Pushing the plate away from his body, he supposed there were worse things than having her around. Then again, he thought, cocking his head to the side, greasy food wasn't exactly a huge price to pay for some privacy.

Whatever, he thought dismissively, not wanting to consider the matter any longer. Weighing the pros and cons were making his head hurt. His stamina for analyzing the minutiae of his life wasn't exactly at a high point these days, and frankly he had no desire to try to figure out what situation was worse: being with Cuddy or without her.

Honestly, it didn't really matter. Because in the end, if he got rid of her and ended up hating it… well, Cuddy was pathetic enough to come back. He wouldn't even have to ask, just guilt her a little bit by acting slightly more pitiful than usual, and she'd return in no time. After all, it wasn't like she had anything better to do.

Case in point, when he hobbled into the kitchen, she looked up eagerly from the paperwork she'd laid out next to Steve's cage. "Do you want something?" she asked automatically, her kind tone softening the otherwise demanding words.

"Well, I was going to ask for my porn back," he told her. "But keep wearing tops that tight, and I guess I won't need it."

She assessed him carefully. "Do we really need to talk about why I took your pornography away?"

"No." He scowled at her but then added, "Although death by getting off isn't exactly a bad way to go."

She threw her hands up in the air. "Oh, _that's_ a perfect way to go. You have another heart attack, and I get to tell your parents how sorry I am for their loss." And then pretending as though she were speaking to them, Cuddy said, "'But you know Greg; he saw cleavage and had to masturbate, despite knowing that it would kill him, because he's an idiot.'"

House pretended to consider what she was saying. "Well, now that you say that, I'm gonna have to do it," he told her. "If only because that's a conversation clearly worth dying for."

"No."

"What are you gonna do to stop me – duct tape oven mitts to my hands?"

Cuddy closed the distance between them, her hands confrontationally on her hips. "I will do what I always do: everything I can to make sure that you don't die from your own…" But she stopped talking as soon as she stood in front of him.

At first he thought she might have been searching for the words she wanted to say. Taking a closer look at her, however, he decided that she didn't look confused. Her nose screwed up, she appeared as though she were… _disgusted_.

"You need a bath," she said abruptly, hands on his chest to push him back into the living room.

He scoffed, hesitating to move. "Well, you need –"

"I need to lose weight, smaller breasts, bigger breasts, a smaller ass, a tighter ass – finish the sentence however you want," Cuddy interrupted in a low voice. She turned him around with her hands, one staying on his back as she guided him towards the bathroom. "I don't care how you finish it, actually, because it doesn't matter. Proper hygiene on the other hand…"

House rolled his eyes. "You make it sound as though I'm some mutt who just spent the morning rolling around in your flower bed."

She didn't say anything right away, eventually telling him, "It wouldn't hurt to shave as well."

Not even bothering to deny what he'd said truly said it all, he thought; he really was, at this moment, the smelly dog traipsing through the house with mud on his paws and poop clumped in his fur.

And he couldn't exactly hate her for the unspoken admittance, considering he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper bath. Before ending up in the hospital, he'd been too focused on Amber – and the bus driver before her – to care much about playing with his rubber duckies. And it went without saying that, when he was in the hospital, he'd been too messed up to do much of anything for himself, thereby forcing Cuddy to step in.

But if he was just beginning to relish the idea of _finally_ being able to take a bath on his own, he quickly realized that was _not_ going to happen. Cuddy gently shoved him into the bathroom. And then she stepped into the small, tiled room as well, closing the door behind her, and although it wasn't immediately obvious what she intended, he knew: she had no plans on leaving.

House made no move to get the bathwater started in reaction. But when that had no effect on her, didn't force her to leave, he said, "As much as I can appreciate your desperate and _obvious_ attachment to seeing me naked, this tub's for one."

A loud laugh escaped her, the single chuckle echoing off of the bathroom tile. As she leaned down to twist the spigot (giving House a great shot of her ass in the process), she reassured him, "I have absolutely _no_ interest in… _any_ of that." Her hand blindly gestured towards his body.

"Yeah," he said doubtfully. He pretended to count in his head before asking her, "How many _years_ has it been again since you last got laid?"

She stood back up with an equally doubtful look in her eyes. "If the choice is between celibacy and you, House, I can assure you: I will choose celibacy every single time."

He frowned dramatically. "Ouch."

Folding her arms across her chest, Cuddy ordered, "Now please take off your clothes and get in the damn tub."

"No mixed messages here," he muttered, pulling off his shirt but going no further. As little shame as he had, as much as he knew she had seen him naked in the past week or so more than Stacy had in their years together, House had no intention of doing what she wanted. Because he was more than aware of how pathetically vulnerable it would make him.

Granted there was always an element of that to him, thanks to his cripple status. But even he could realize that he seemed especially delicate every time he had to grab the showerhead and gingerly pull himself into the tub, hoping desperately _not_ to fall or hurt himself.

And there was no part of him that felt comfortable showing Cuddy, who had since then sat on the closed toilet lid as though it were a chair, _that_. But she clearly couldn't appreciate that. "I don't want to see you naked," she told him. "I'm just doing what any other… person looking after you would –"

As House turned off the water, he said critically, "The last nurse was doubtful about my abilities to take a _dump_ on my own, but she didn't feel the need to watch me do that _or_ this."

She rolled her eyes. "That was before you took enough Physostigmine to stop your heart. And before you remembered what happened in the accident. And _before_ you had brain surgery. And _before_ you had a seizure and went into a coma," she listed irritably. "And also before _I_ learned that you like to have morphine squirreled around in your tea and before I realized that the injury to your head had made an impact on your ability to control your –"

Uninterested in, and maybe a little afraid of, what she had to say next, House interrupted, accused, "So once again this is a matter of trust. You think –"

"This is a matter of your _safety_," she corrected.

"As I was about to say, you think I'm, what, going to off myself in the tub? Overdose on rubber duckies and shampoo?" He sounded bitter, extremely so, the feeling palpable in the back of his throat.

"You could have another seizure. You could have another _heart attack_." There was concern in her tone that made him wonder just how worried for him she actually was. "I'm sorry if you're… embarrassed or ashamed of –"

He scoffed loudly. "_No_. It's just that I prefer to _look_ at strippers, not to actually _be_ one." The words sounded true enough, he thought. But at the same time, House was beginning to realize that she wasn't going to back down, and unless he wanted her to keep thinking that he was ashamed, he would have to comply.

"These are your choices: either you _voluntarily_ take off your pants and get in the tub or I _make_ you do it."

"You gonna tackle me, Hot Pants?" he challenged.

"I'm hoping you'll choose the more dignified option, although if you don't, I will do whatever it takes – even if it means _manhandling_ you."

Glancing over at her, he could see the ferocity in her eyes, leaving no doubt in his mind that she meant what she said.

With a sigh he relented. "Fine." Because, as he slipped his pants off, House couldn't help but think it wasn't worth the fight… or rather, it wasn't worth it when he knew he had no chance of winning. He was bigger, yes, but at the moment, he was weaker, and the likelihood of her wrestling him to the ground and ripping off his pajamas was too great to argue.

Carefully he stepped into the hot water. The pipes leading to the showerhead groaning quietly as he held onto them, he didn't hazard a glance at her until he was sure he wouldn't fall.

It was then that he saw she was decidedly _not_ trying to look at him; her gaze was firmly fixed on her socked feet. And as he choreographed the slow movements his body needed to make to get into a sitting position, House asked mockingly, "What – not interested in the free show?"

"Uh no," she answered dryly. "I've seen the _show_ more times than I ever wanted or _needed_ to see."

"Your loss," he replied, his body making a plopping sound as it made contact with the water. Part of him was sure that there was an insult in there somewhere, but at the moment, he wasn't exactly concerned about that; the bath that he hadn't thought of taking really did just feel too good.

He leaned back in the tub with a sigh, the hot water sloshing against his sides from the movement. As he let the warmth spread through his body, he thought to himself that this had been a good idea of Cuddy's.

Not that he was ever going to volunteer that information.

But it felt nice. He could admit that much to himself. The grimy feeling that had lingered from only getting sponge baths slowly began to dissipate, and the seemingly ever present ring in his ear began to hush, the sound taking on a dull roar in the back of his head.

His leg still hurt – it _always_ hurt, unfortunately – but the heat and position he was currently sitting in was lessening the ever-present pain to a slight throb. Or maybe that was the drugs, he thought with a shrug. At the moment, he didn't care what it was that was making him feel this way. All that mattered to him was making this instant in time expand, stretch, _last_ as long as it could.

Closing his eyes, House let the heated cocoon do its job. He didn't bother picking up the washcloth right away, didn't reach for the soap. That would come later, he figured, but right now… all he wanted to do was give into the relaxed feeling gently lulling him into something approaching peace.

But very quickly, he realized, that feeling was turning into something else. How it happened he wasn't sure, but the transition from tranquil to tired was nearly seamless in his body – so much so that if he hadn't been focusing on the way his body was reacting to the warm water, he would have fallen asleep.

Or maybe not because all of a sudden, Cuddy spoke up, "House?"

"What?" He allowed his irritation to flow through him and into his voice, to pull him out of the lull he found himself in. His eyes popping open, he quickly grabbed the washcloth to pretend that he'd been resenting this (and by extension, _her_) the entire time.

"Just making sure you're okay. You weren't making any noise," she explained in an apologetic tone.

His response was an admittedly hypocritical and breezy "Some of us don't feel the need to announce our _annoying_ presence every second of the way."

"If _you're_ saying that, you must have hit your head harder than any of us thought."

To be honest, House was not surprised she'd said that. For as long as he had known her, he had also been familiar with her sense of humor. Her tongue had always been razor sharp, sometimes the words more cutting than she probably intended them to be. And he had always been aware of that, even now despite the fact that her response was giving him pause.

He wasn't _offended_. Really, he wasn't, especially when he considered that what she'd just said wasn't even that bad.

But…

There was a truth in her words, that maybe they _didn't_ know the extent of the damage to his head, that made him wonder just how horribly wrong everything inside of him was. Of course, House rationally understood that, in some ways, it was impossible to know how bad his head injury was; in some cases, until he actually faced a task he _couldn't_ do, he wouldn't know that that part of his mind had been damaged. It was a guessing game, one that he wouldn't be able to use rational patterns to beat.

And he realized that much, as well as the possibility, if not _probability,_ that he could regain the function he had lost.

But that didn't make him feel any less as though he were navigating through a minefield. If anything comments like that made him honestly believe that, at any moment, he could do the wrong thing, make some horrible mistake that would only keep Cuddy in his apartment longer, that would keep him from his _job_ longer.

No doubt she would see an irony in that, in the fact that his need for wallowing in his misery at the nearest bar had led to him risking his mind, the one part about himself he admired, his relationship with Wilson, the one person he liked, and his job, the one thing he enjoyed doing. Cuddy and her idiotic sense of humor – yeah, he though bitterly, she would appreciate the irony of the situation he'd put himself in.

And while she'd said that she didn't think it was his fault, somehow that seemed impossible to believe. As he lathered soap onto his body, he recalled the honesty he'd seen in her eyes, and he knew that that hadn't been faked. And yet… he couldn't help but think that she blamed him in her own way, that she probably looked upon the situation as just another one of his screw-ups.

Just another example of how House had never deserved Wilson.

That he couldn't deny it to himself was telling, making him actually believe that she was right about it all. The realization seeped into his bones, making him cold in a way the water around him could not warm. And he could feel the melancholy begin to tug at him once more.

There was no question in his mind as to whether he could fight it; he couldn't, _wouldn't_ be able to, no matter how he hard he tried. He'd spent too much time and energy already picking petty fights with Cuddy.

Which meant that all he could do was hurry up and finish bathing, stave off the feeling as long as he could (and be alone when it finally did seize him). His hands instinctively picked up the pace, the washcloth in his grasp sliding across his body in broad strokes.

He worked quickly, with a surprising amount of efficiency, he thought. So much so that he only stumbled when, a few minutes later, he reached the final task of shampooing his hair.

In terms of damage a person could actually see, he'd been fairly lucky. House didn't have the contusions Amber had, his skin unmarred by black and blue bruises that immediately screamed "accident." Nor did he have the split lip or the visible cuts; he'd had the stitches and staples on his scalp, from both the accident itself and the brain surgery, but you couldn't see those things unless you were actually looking for them. His hair wasn't exactly thick these days, but it provided enough covering.

And maybe that was why he began to vigorously shampoo his head – because he _hadn't_ had the regular visible reminder of what had happened. Not that he needed one now; the second his ragged fingernails scoured over the still healing skin, he let out a hiss of pain.

His scalp immediately burned a little, his error obvious if small, and it would have been easy to take care of if the noise he'd made hadn't caught Cuddy's attention.

He could hear her feet shifting on the tiled floor when she asked, "You okay?"

"I'm _fine_," House nearly barked in response. "I was just thinking about how different this would be if our roles were reversed," he explained conversationally, the lie easily forming in his mind and drawing her in. "But then I realized I want to see _your_ penis about as much you want to see mine."

"Your maturity astounds me…" She sounded irritated, and he was sure that she was still speaking when he dipped his head below the water. But he was far more interested in rinsing off the irritating shampoo than hearing her recriminations. And he was a little more than pleased, when he bobbed back up to the surface, that she had shut up.

But not for long, of course, because he then went and did something _really_ stupid, he would later realize. His hair was dripping wet, water getting into his eyes. And without even thinking about it, House shook his head, sending water everywhere and his injured mind in a tailspin.

"_House_," Cuddy admonished from behind the partition that separated the toilet from the tub.

His head throbbed too violently to allow him to formulate a response.

"You're getting water everywhere."

He scowled. "Shut up." Closing his eyes, he tried to will the pain away.

"You could slip and fall, jackass," she pointed out, her tone mimicking his own.

As he stood up in the bathtub, House muttered a "We'll see," not taking her warning even the least bit seriously.

And in the end, it wasn't the few drops of water on the floor that got him. Reaching out to grab the towel Cuddy had set out for him, he somehow twisted his body awkwardly, placed too much weigh on his bad leg. And although, under normal circumstances, he could have withstood the sudden jolt of pain coursing through him, this took him by surprise. Too distracted by Cuddy, he'd been able to set the permanent ache aside (which rarely happened) for a while, and now it was making itself known in the most obnoxious way imaginable.

He exhaled roughly through his teeth, and that was all he needed to do, apparently, to worry Cuddy. With shaking hands he was wrapping the towel around his waist when she stood up. "You're _not_ okay," she accused moving toward him with concerned eyes.

Slowly stepping out of the tub, House opened his mouth to respond.

But he didn't have to.

In the end, it wasn't the water but the linoleum and her socked feet that did them both in. There was no traction, nothing to counteract the way she was stalking towards him. And all it took was one wrong step, not enough weight put on the foot to keep her heel from sliding along the floor.

He watched her begin to fall, a smirk playing on his lips. But as her body moved backwards, Cuddy reached out for something, _anything_, to grab onto.

Including him.

She'd instinctively grabbed his hand, tugging hard, and his leg already throbbing, he had no defense. His wet feet slipped on the tile, making a bizarre shrill monotone.

They fell in a pile. His thigh burned angrily, screaming for drugs almost as loudly as the back of her head connected with the wall. His own head was fine, but that probably had something to do with his current position; he was lying on top of her, her legs splayed to either side of his hips.

Not exactly how he pictured being naked and on top of her and between her thighs.

But he wasn't complaining. Oh no, House, at the moment was quite pleased by the current situation. As stupid as it had been to grab the cripple for balance, he couldn't exactly be mad. With his face currently smushed in her cleavage, he was the exact opposite of _mad_.

"Are you okay?" Cuddy asked after a moment. As he ventured a glance at her, his chin digging into her sternum, he could see that she was rubbing the back of her head.

"Oh, I'm good," he told her suggestively, waggling his eyebrows for good measure.

She looked like she wanted to kill him. "You're fine," she said, almost as though announcing that fact was something he needed to hear. "Now stop being a pervert and get off of me."

"But I like where I am," he countered.

"_Now_," she repeated more firmly.

He complied then. But if he did so, it had very little to do with her tone of voice and stiffening body. If anything, it was the niggling realization that he was beginning to _smile_, beginning to _enjoy_ her company, that forced him to move.

As he retreated into his bedroom, House understood: already, he was getting used to her. And he didn't know if that was a good thing or something unbelievably terrible.

_End (8/15)_


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to STarSHipper, Queen S of Randomness 016, i luv ewansmile, and lhoma320 for the wonderful reviews. I always appreciate whatever encouragement I can get, but particularly with this fic, your responses have been especially useful. So thanks for that. Also thank you to my beta, Olly, for all of her hard work and dedication.

_Disclaimer: The show isn't mine._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Nine: The Phone Call  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_The basic idea of rational choice theory is that patterns of behavior in societies reflect the choices made by individuals as they try to maximize their benefits and minimize their costs. In other words, people make decisions about how they should act by comparing the costs and benefits of different courses of action." – Rational Choice Theory, Wikipedia_

He'd been sitting outside her house for an hour now. At least an hour, Wilson mentally corrected, the gas gauge a far better measure than his own mind of how long he'd been sitting in his idling car. Too distracted by his behavior earlier in the day and what he should do now, Wilson hadn't been, _wasn't_ concerned about time.

Nor did he care that lurking outside of Cuddy's home was the act of stalkers, was something that would surely pique the curiosity of the neighbors if he didn't leave or go inside soon. But despite knowing that… he couldn't move.

Actually, if he were being really honest with himself, he wondered why he was even here at all. Cuddy wasn't here – her car absent from her driveway and, from what he could tell, missing from the garage. And she wasn't likely to show up, her dedication to _House_ driving her every action as of late. Which meant that if _he_ were still in the hospital, she would be there by his side, and if he'd been released, she'd probably be waiting on him hand and foot at his apartment. Because she was… _devoted_ to him, the rationale behind that escaping Wilson.

Of course… maybe that wasn't exactly fair. Her friendship with House wasn't any more inexplicable than his own had been, and whatever her reasons, Wilson was sure that some of them would have made sense to him less than a month ago. And it was with equal certainty that he believed…

Those reasons would never apply to him again.

That his life should have ever been ruled by them seemed so bizarre to him now. All that _effort_ into protecting House, making _him_ happy, when compared to how much House was willing to give him in return, seemed so… _pointless_, Wilson thought with a sigh. All that time spent with House when it could have been spent working or with Amber or _something_ – it was just _amazing_, even to Wilson's own mind, that he had been willing to sacrifice so much.

It seemed like such an odd thing to have done now, such an _irrational_ way to have prioritized his life. But then again… he couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was doing _now_.

A loud chuckle of disbelief escaped him. And, throwing his hands in the air, Wilson realized just what it was about this situation that was so peculiar to him. It wasn't that Cuddy wasn't here or that he had practically taken on the role of stalker. It wasn't that she was still friends with House or that Wilson now recognized that a friendship with House wasn't worth it.

Instead, he understood, as he aimlessly glanced around the empty car, it was the fact that he was on the cusp of repeating that mistake. Because here he was outside of Cuddy's house, hoping that…

Well, he didn't actually know what he was hoping for.

At first, he'd just been in need of an escape from Amber's apartment – or more specifically, he'd needed to escape his own inability to protect what little of her he had left. So Wilson had driven around town; no destination in mind, he had been a little shocked to find himself near Cuddy's neighborhood. And he had been even more surprised to find himself… thinking that she could offer him the reprieve he needed.

And however much later it was now, he thought the fact that he hadn't been able to talk himself out of that idea was the most shocking thing of all. Because it should have been an easy thing to disprove in his head; Cuddy couldn't make him feel any better, part of him was sure of that fact.

_Nothing_ could make this better.

But at the same time… Wilson couldn't deny that it had been _so nice_ to have someone hold his hand… _hug him_ in the hospital when he first learned what would happen to Amber. A small consolation, yes, a _pitiful_ one even, but for a brief moment, he'd known what it meant to have a _friend_. And as pathetic as it undoubtedly was, he wanted to feel that again.

And he supposed he could have been desperate enough to cling on to anyone at this point; so alone and miserable, he very well could have found the first person on the street and clung to them as though they mattered more than anything.

But in the end, Wilson knew why he wanted Cuddy; it had been _her_ idea to wake Amber up. It had been on Cuddy's insistence, to be perfectly honest, that they say goodbye, and it had been a good idea, he recognized. Those last few moments with Amber were – would always be – precious seconds that he cherished, and _Cuddy_ had given him that, which meant that she had given him the single greatest gift he could have received in that moment.

Sighing once again, he recognized that his current thoughts felt… really out of place. He'd always thought Cuddy was – well, she'd always been his boss, first and foremost. And while there had been times where they conspired with one other, brief moments where she had relied on him or when he had gone to her for help, he'd never really… _liked_ her.

Immediately Wilson put a hand up in the air, almost as though someone else had put that idea forward and not his own brain. Because it sounded harsh, even in his own mind, to say that he hadn't liked her. It was the truth, of course, but to be fair, he hadn't _not_ liked her. She'd always just been… Cuddy.

And part of him _hated_ the fact that, the moment she had become something else to him, she had chosen House. She'd missed how important she had become, and that made Wilson wonder if she were even worth trusting, worth wanting to be close to.

Well, actually, true be told, he couldn't help but realize that there was very little wondering involved; if anything, her choice made it seem so perfectly obvious that she wasn't someone he should rely on so easily. And rationally he understood that, but…

But…

With a shrug, he thought, he was parked outside of her home anyway, poised to make the same mistake twice. His hands feeling heavy, Wilson slowly reached for the cell phone sitting on the seat next to him.

He shouldn't be doing this, he chastised. But nevertheless, he found himself robotically dialing her cell number. As the dial tone filled his ear with mechanical noise, he hoped she would answer.

When she picked up, Cuddy was rooting around the kitchen for some aspirin she might have hidden. Her head aching and shirt wet from House falling on top of her, she wasn't in the mood for a phone call. And, not even bothering to look down at the caller ID, she pulled her cell out of her pocket and answered in irritation, "Hello."

There was a long pause, a moment of silence that almost had her convinced that there was no one on the line. But the sound of an exhale occasionally breaking through the conspicuous quiet, it was obvious that there _was_ someone on the other end. Which made her think that maybe this was House screwing around with her.

It wouldn't have been completely out of the question. He _was_ the kind of person to still get a kick out of a prank call, after all, and she was sure that part of his not-so-secret plan to drive her nuts involved heavy breathing and ignoring her. But just as she was about to snap at him to hang up the damn phone and finish getting dressed from his bath, the voice on the other end spoke.

And it was _not_ House.

"It's me," Wilson confessed tiredly.

"Oh." She sounded surprised, she thought. Or at least Cuddy hoped that that was how she sounded, preferring that to the idea that she was disappointed or upset that he was calling her. Licking her lips, she asked slowly, "Are you…" She swallowed hard, not liking the way the words sounded. "How are you?"

"I'm…" He chuckled, which did nothing to ease the discomfort snaking its way from the pit of her stomach to the back of her throat. "At your house," he finished.

"_Oh_."

There was no missing the shock in the word.

Her brow furrowing in confusion, Cuddy wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to respond to that. Did she explain to him that she wasn't there, that she was with House? Or would that simply end in them fighting once more?

Frowning, she guessed there was no point in lying about it. If he were at her house for something, she couldn't lie and tell him she would be there; it would just strain their already tenuous friendship, and she had no desire to do that. One of her hands lightly pressing into her forehead, Cuddy told him regretfully, "Well, you know I'm not there."

"Yeah." His voice suddenly sounding bitter, Wilson filled in the blanks. "Right. You're with _House_."

"I am. Yes." She waited for his anger, expected him to say something so cruel to the point that she would think she was talking to House; she hadn't forgotten their fight in the hospital, and, although she wanted to believe the best in Wilson, part of her feared the worst.

But instead an angry remark, she got silence – long, oppressive, unbearable silence that somehow made her feel guiltier than any insult or response would. Glancing down at her fingernails, Cuddy couldn't help but think that maybe that was what he wanted. "I have to be here," she defended lazily, tiredly.

She could practically see him shake his head in the back of her mind. "No, you _want_ to be there," he corrected in agitation.

"He _needs_ someone to look after him, Wilson," she implored quietly. Giving up then on finding any aspirin, Cuddy resigned herself to the headache that was creeping up on her. And leaning against the countertop, her back against the little animal cage House still had, she told him, "I know you don't agree with me. _Obviously_ you don't agree. But he can't be alone. Not when he's like this."

Wilson seemed to hesitate, but nevertheless, he asked after a moment, "Like… how?"

"Like how you would expect someone to behave after _unsafe_ brain surgery, an accident, and the loss of his best friend," Cuddy said honestly.

She wasn't trying to guilt trip him. Really, she _wasn't_ doing that. As much as part of her wanted to be furious with Wilson and with House, she understood both of them too well for anger. Granted, she might not have had quite the same experiences necessary to understand what either man was going through, but… her heart _ached_ for them both.

Once more, Cuddy sighed into the phone. "Wilson, _please_ talk to him."

"I can't."

He sounded resigned to that fact, his voice suddenly sounding tired. "I can't," he repeated, stressing the words probably in the hope that she would understand.

And she tried to show him that she did, even if part of her didn't _really_ understand. "Okay."

"I just…" He paused, letting out a very loud, ragged breath into the phone. "I can't deal with him right now."

"Okay." Shaking her head, Cuddy conceded, "No, you're right. I shouldn't have brought it up. I won't push you," she said comfortingly. "Just… tell me what I can do. To help you."

"The keys to your house," Wilson immediately replied in a rush, almost as though he were ashamed to be asking for such a thing.

Which was justified in her mind. Of all the things he could have asked for, keys to her home? _That_ hadn't even crossed her mind, and even as the request washed over her, warming her slightly with the knowledge that he wanted something from her, she still had _no idea_ why he would want such a thing. Her voice tight with confusion, Cuddy asked, "My keys?"

If he were nodding his head in response, she couldn't see it, and she waited almost impatiently for him to say something.

Under normal circumstances, she probably would have been willing to wait for him to speak once more; she hoped as much anyway. But the fact that she was still with House was beginning to reassert itself, and the longer she talked to Wilson, the more aware she became of the possibility of House walking in the kitchen and discovering what she was doing. And although Cuddy rationally understood she had no reason to suspect a fight would come out of that, she believed House would be angry nevertheless.

Her fingers drumming on the counter behind her, she prayed Wilson would spit out whatever it was he wanted to say.

But it was at least another minute before he ventured to explain. "I can't… stay there," he told her, his voice stressing each word, dragging the syllables out as though the words were too heavy to speak quickly.

"I don't understand."

"The apartment. _ Amber's_ apartment," he clarified, his throat sounding painfully tight as he spoke his dead girlfriend's name. "I tried to stay there, Cuddy… I… _tried_ to live there and pretend like I could… _be_ there and keep her memory safe, and it wouldn't bother me."

She frowned deeply, immediately consoling, "Well, of course, you couldn't do that. _Nobody_ could."

At hearing her words, Wilson sighed, sounding almost relieved that she didn't fault him for that fact. Which truly broke her heart. Because as angry as it made her to think that he would blame House for Amber's death, Cuddy didn't want Wilson to blame himself either.

It was cliché to say it, but in this case, there really wasn't anyone at fault for what had happened. There was no sinister bad guy, no one lurking in the shadows behind every corner waiting to strike. There had only been a series of events that had led to… _this_, and she was sure that it was that fact that was most upsetting to Wilson. Because it meant that, at any point, it could have been avoided – if Amber hadn't gotten her hands on Amantadine, if House hadn't called, if Amber hadn't shown up, etc. One thing changed, one little instant different, and Amber would be alive, and Cuddy had no doubt that that fact was haunting Wilson.

And probably House too, for that matter, although the likelihood of him ever confirming that to her were slim to none.

"I tried," Wilson said, clearly heartbroken over that truth, as he interrupted her thoughts. "But I _can't_ stay there anymore."

Suddenly seeing where this conversation was headed, Cuddy concluded slowly, "So you want to stay at my house."

He seemed to hesitate to respond, pointed silence following her words, but eventually, he tried to explain to her, "I thought about a hotel room, but –"

"No, you shouldn't be in a hotel room," she agreed emphatically, none of his reasons needed, because as nice as hotels could be, they were… cool, _impersonal_. And although she had no idea why Wilson should want to go anywhere near her home, that made more sense than abandoning his apartment to live in the neat formality of a hotel. "You don't need to say anymore," she told him.

Shaking her head, Cuddy looked up at the ceiling. It would be _weird_ to have Wilson in her house, she thought. And rationally, she understood that it probably wasn't a good idea to let him have access to her in that way; as inappropriate as living with House was, this almost seemed _worse_, because at least House needed someone to watch over him.

But… nevertheless, some part of her, a very _large_ part of her was comfortable with Wilson taking up residence at her place. If only because it meant she was _finally_ able to do something for him, she was okay with letting him live there. "All right," she capitulated. "There's a key underneath the flower pot right by the door."

And just as he replied gratefully, "Thank you," Cuddy heard House in the hallway, the sound of his telltale limp letting her know he was getting closer.

Hurriedly, she asked, "Are you going to be all right?"

It took him a second to say, "Fine," and when he did, she couldn't help but think it was _completely_ unconvincing.

But before she had a chance to press the matter, Wilson hung up, blistering silence and House's questioning glare her only companions.

As Cuddy looked for a way out of explaining what had just happened, Wilson was finding _his_ way into her home. The second he stepped foot inside, he felt better.

And admittedly, that didn't exactly make much sense. But, shutting the door behind him, Wilson couldn't help but recognize that he _did_ feel… more at ease. Because while it was impossible to _not_ feel as though he were intruding on someone else's life, in this case, it didn't seem quite so sacrilegious.

It didn't feel as though his very presence was destroying the life that lived here.

And more importantly, the person who lived here was _not_ Amber, was _not_ the one person he wanted but could never _ever_ have again. The color of the walls, the unobtrusive scent in the air, the knickknacks in each room – it was all Cuddy, all came from a woman who was alive and maybe not entirely available but _accessible_ never the less.

Of course, Wilson conceded as he plopped down unceremoniously on the couch in the living room, that didn't mean everything was _okay_. As much as he wished he could ignore it, there was no denying the grief that was beginning to tug at his senses once more. For the moment, he was holding it at bay, his interest in his new surroundings temporarily overriding everything else, but soon enough he would be missing Amber once more.

Soon enough, that suffocating heartbreak, that inconsolable sadness would return, and he would never be prepared for that, never able to deal with in a "reasonable" way. Of that he was convinced.

But for now, even if it was only for a few hours, a few _minutes_, Wilson was content for the reprieve this offered. Closing his eyes, he thought as he began to fall asleep, that this was the second greatest thing Cuddy had ever done for him.

On the other hand, Cuddy was beginning to suspect that taking Wilson's call while House was still awake and moving around the house was one of her… well, _dumber_ decisions in life.

Ever since she'd hung up the phone, he'd been curious about it. And although, for three days now, she'd denied that the conversation had been anything of interest to him, House was determined to know who she had spoken to. He'd asked and _continued_ to ask at every available opportunity what the phone call had been about. Using questions designed to trip her up, he was looking for an answer.

Or more to the point, he was _obsessed_ with finding one. To the exclusion of everything else, it seemed – including his hardly covert scheme to annoy the crap out of her.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly true, Cuddy thought with a shake of the head. He was still annoying, but then she doubted that there would be a day where he _didn't_ rub her the wrong way. Because as much as she liked him, as much as she _knew_ he liked her, their dynamic was one that thrived on conflict, and that meant, even when they wanted to get along, they couldn't necessarily.

And so, to be totally honest, while there were still arguments, still moments where she wanted to smack him, she couldn't help but notice that House's diverted attention had made him _almost_ easier to deal with in a way. Because, in the three days since Wilson had called, there had been _no_ screaming for her to leave, _no _monumental tantrums that left House panting and exhausted, which was truly a nice change of pace.

Of course, there was no denying that that could have been the antidepressants working – _finally_ –or the result of him realizing she wasn't going anywhere. But the latter seemed like wishful thinking at best. And the former…

Well, that seemed doubtful.

_Extremely_ doubtful.

Because although he tried to hide it, living together, however temporary, had made privacy an in-demand commodity, and no matter how good at deception he was, there were times when she caught brief glimpses of…

Pain.

Not the physical agony she often discovered him in, this was a pain in him unlike any she'd seen before. This was all emotion, and though he tried to hide it, there had still been moments where she'd stumbled upon him and _seen_:

Sadness.

Grief.

Guilt.

_Shame_.

The range of emotions heavily weighing on him, for those brief seconds, right before the calmed mask had fallen into place, Cuddy hadn't been able to ignore the way his shoulders had sagged, his eyes had cast downward, and the lines on his face had become so pronounced. And there was no denying now that, no matter how much pain he'd been in before, no matter how miserable he'd been in the past, this was different.

This was worse.

_Much_ worse.

Which made Cuddy doubt that House's slightly improved way of dealing with her had anything to do with the antidepressants. Because frankly, at this point, she doubted the efficacy of the drugs in general, despite putting him on the same prescription Wilson had given him previously. Or at least, it made her wonder just how depressed House really was if _this_ was the result _with_ the antidepressants.

Truly, it made her wonder what the drugs were masking (if anything) if the past week had been little more than watching him go from incredibly upset to incredibly curious to incredibly furious with very little transition.

That said, right now, in this very moment, things were… calm. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that House, having done little more than rant and pace through the night, was sleeping on the couch.

Sighing Cuddy couldn't help but be a little jealous of that fact. After all, it had been a sleepless night for _her_ as well; part of that, naturally, had to do with the very loud party that had lasted through the early morning hours. But it was also House's fault, what with his plan to keep her awake as long as he couldn't sleep. He'd spent the night asking her about the phone call, snapping and snarling at her when she hadn't given him an answer he liked.

And while he now got to spend the atypically cold and rainy day catching up on sleep, Cuddy wasn't so lucky, still being responsible for his well being. Which meant, instead of napping, she'd spent a good portion of the afternoon making soup for dinner.

She was sitting at the butcher-block-topped table, the sleeves of her red sweater rolled up to the elbows. Her dark hair loosely pulled back, a few strands had escaped in the time since she'd moved a chair to the table and gotten to work. Thin curls tickled the back of her neck, and at this point, instead of wanting sleep, Cuddy wanted nothing more than to redo her ponytail, the tickling feeling having turned to irritation almost a half hour ago.

But she ignored the urge, understanding all too well that she needed to get dinner ready on time, lest House throw a tantrum like a child. Besides, at the moment, she was painstakingly pulling the cooked meat off of a chicken she'd spent the last two hours boiling. And with her fingers flecked with bits of flesh, her skin shiny and slick with the juice of the bird, it would have been nothing short of disgusting to put her hands anywhere near her hair.

Stripping the meat off of the thigh in her hand, Cuddy pushed the thought aside. The more she thought about it, the more, she realized, it would irritate her. The more it would drive her to distraction, she thought, and it was with renewed purpose that she tore the flesh off of the cooked and cooled chicken.

But, as the case always seemed to be in this apartment, distraction found its way to her nonetheless in its usual form: House.

She knew he was awake, his loud snoring noticeably absent, and the sound of his footsteps on the floor made it impossible to miss that he was coming her way.

"Interesting," House said the second he stepped into the kitchen, his words clearly trying to get a rise out of her.

She rolled her eyes but didn't look up at him. "I'm making dinner. That's not interesting; it's –"

"Interesting in that you're _not_ talking to Foreman," he interrupted loudly.

Scoffing loudly, she looked up to glare at him. "For the _millionth_ time, I wasn't talking to Foreman on the phone _three_ _days ago_," she protested, emphasizing the amount of time House had been pestering her on the matter.

He stalked towards her, coming to a stop on the other side of the butcher block. And glancing down at the food before him, House, of course, couldn't help but pick up some of the chicken and eat it. Chewing loudly, he said easily, "You're lying."

She shook her head, curls irritating her neck and cheeks. "I'm _not_ –"

"Yeah, you are," he insisted. His eyes narrowing on her, he admitted for the first time, "I saw you with him in the hospital."

Yanking apart the chicken in her hand, Cuddy could not, for the life of her, understand why he was so obsessed with Foreman. The phone call was interesting to him, and she could understand that. But why House should think that she was talking to Foreman… it made no sense.

"I'm sure you did see us," she dismissed, not wanting to say any more. Which also didn't really make sense, she admitted privately. Because there was no rational reason for her to _not_ tell House that she'd given Foreman a case. Especially since the patient had died and Foreman was now relegated to doing clinic duty with his tail tucked between his legs, she didn't think House would necessarily mind that she'd given the younger doctor a case.

And yet… some part of her feared that House would take it badly, would yell and fight her like he had on so many other things recently. So she lied and added, "We were at the hospital. I'm his boss; he's my employee. You had neurological problems; he's a neurologist. _Of course_, you saw me speaking to him."

But he wasn't buying it. "That's not it." Grabbing another piece of meat, House twirled it around with his fingers but didn't eat it. "You were giving him a look. The _same _–"

The chicken completely stripped of its meat, Cuddy stood up, a painful twinge in her back forcing her to consider the stupidity of sleeping on a couch repeatedly. "There was no look," she said with a sigh. "And stop eating or there won't be any left for dinner."

"There was a look," he repeated, mumbling because of the food in his mouth.

Her back was turned to him as she washed her hands off in the kitchen sink. But there was no doubt in her mind that he was shoving chicken in his mouth as fast as he could just to piss her off. "What did I just say?" she demanded to know as she dried her hands using one of the dishtowels lying nearby. "Stop eating all of the chicken," she repeated angrily.

His response was one of mock contrition. "Sorry. I just assumed you were lying about that as well."

Pausing, Cuddy looked down at her now still hands. Her wrists were surprisingly unbound, the feeling as though House had her hands tied so overwhelming that she was nearly shocked to find that they weren't literally as well. Not that they needed to be – she was all too aware that she was way past the point of being able to get away with a denial.

She was three _days_ past that, and she understood in that moment that House wouldn't let this go until he discovered the truth. Or rather, he would keep pushing until he had _some_ version of the truth. Which meant Cuddy had to give him something, had to tell him that she had given Foreman a case or taken Wilson's call.

Folding the dishtowel in her hands, she supposed that telling him either incident would be enough to satisfy his curiosity. If she mentioned Wilson, then he would forget about Foreman, and she was sure the reverse was true as well; it was just a matter of deciding which event would upset him the least and, at the same time, hold his interest.

And truth be told, Cuddy wasn't sure what House valued more:

His job or Wilson.

Which was what it came down to; there was no point in denying that, she knew, because there was no reason to pretend that House would take it well. No matter how kindly she put it, he _would_ see the case or the call as a betrayal, as proof that he had lost something.

There would be no convincing him otherwise, no amount of words that would reassure him of his place at the hospital or in Wilson's life.

So the best she could hope for was to minimize his misery.

But what she should tell him didn't seem particularly clear, at least not immediately so. House, she knew, loved his job. Even if there were times when he said he hated it, even if there _were_ times when he _did_ hate it, in her heart, Cuddy knew that there was no better place for him.

There was no job, no hospital, better suited for him.

But then… House… _loved_ Wilson. Their friendship was maybe the one thing outside of his job that he appreciated. Certainly, Wilson was the _one_ person House trusted with almost everything – including his life. The deep brain stimulation that she had been so opposed to was proof of that. And although he seemed reluctant, _afraid_, to talk to Wilson, Cuddy believed that House didn't want to let his friend go.

So maybe… telling him that Wilson had called would force him to make a move?

The thought inherently came with a question mark in her mind, because she recognized readily that it could go either way; just as it could motivate House to pick up the damn phone, it could easily send him further into himself, into his own denial.

But even knowing that, Cuddy decided almost immediately that _this_ was what House should hear. Because even if it sent him spiraling, the possibility of it forcing him to act was too enticing to ignore.

Turning to face him, she was about to speak when he interrupted, asking her, "You gonna tell me who called or should I continue to annoy you?" A surprising amount of mirth flecked through his bright eyes, the familiar mischief so visible, even from this distance.

She didn't doubt that the emotions were not reflected in her own gaze. Shaking her head a little, Cuddy cleared her throat. Her words slow and uttered in a low voice, she confessed, "It was Wilson." Her eyes never left his as she clarified, "The phone call – it was from Wilson."

His reaction was immediate. Any and all hints of teasing, of impishness and happiness, disappeared from his eyes, from his entire body. His lips abruptly turned downward into a frown, and the muscles in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth.

Seeing the sadness hit him _hard_, Cuddy moved away from the sink, the need to be near him overwhelming. He would never accept a hug, would never, _ever_ allow himself that kind of comfort, and she knew that, but some part of her irrationally wanted to offer it to him nonetheless.

And it was even more irrational that she should find herself frowning as he turned away from her, his gaze blocked. "House?" she asked carefully, quietly.

When he turned back around, a blank expression had settled on his features, denying her any insight into what he might say or do. Indeed, she was anything but prepared for his joking comment, "Well, that's a lot better than the phone sex you were having with Foreman in my mind." When she didn't laugh or roll her eyes, House changed the topic completely, asking her, "Pills?"

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "What?"

"_Pills_," he repeated in anger. "Where are they?"

Cuddy hesitated to answer – not because he didn't need the medication. Thanks to his nap, House was actually behind his schedule by about an hour. And she didn't doubt that his leg hurt at this particular moment. But nevertheless, she realized that if she were to answer him, allow him to change the subject, then they would never talk about what she'd just said. If she did what he wanted, he would never do what she hoped he would do.

"Oh, I see," he spoke, obviously peckish. "This is either your idea of a fun scavenger hunt or you're thinking that I listen best when I'm in _pain_."

She sighed, knowing that she wouldn't get anywhere (as though she could get anywhere at this point, she thought grimly) until he was properly drugged. "Your medication is where I set it out for you this morning – on the coffee table." She looked at him oddly then, remembering at that moment that he'd _seen _her put the pills there. "You were on the couch – you _saw_ me do that."

Turning around and heading into the living room, he retorted over his shoulder, "It's called brain damage."

She immediately followed him, ignoring the fact that she still needed to make the meatballs for the soup; the food would have to wait until this matter was settled. Her arms folded across her chest, Cuddy waited until she was right behind him to ask, "That's all you have to say?"

House put the couch between them, sitting down to look at the drugs she'd lined up for him. He sounded distracted when he asked, "What did you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," she said, rubbing her temples. "I _thought_ you might be upset or… _curious_ about what Wilson had to say."

In a weird way, she was hoping to get a rise out of him, hoping to coax out whatever pain he was in. Which, admittedly, sounded _so_ cruel, Cuddy thought. But at the same time… if he would just accept that he missed Wilson, accept that he needed to do something to get his friend back… if he would just _accept_ her help, he would be so much happier in the long run.

But if House realized that, he didn't act like it, remaining quiet as he examined his pills. Hunched forward, he gazed downward at the medication in front of him. Every so often he would pop one of the chalky pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry. And that was a noticeable difference from the way he usually just grabbed and blindly took what she gave him.

The MAOI inhibiter still lying on the coffee table, along with a few other drugs, Cuddy could feel herself getting antsy. Because although she had no intention of keeping what he was taking a _secret_, she wasn't necessarily prepared to get into the inevitable fight that would result. Hell, she was absolutely unprepared for a fight, her already exhausted body not capable of a long, drawn out argument.

So she decided to distract him by telling him, "You need to call Wilson."

But it was too late.

Because he stood up then and turned to her, the antidepressant in his hand. "And you need to tell me why you've been dosing me with _this_."

Cuddy frowned, knowing that if she weren't absolutely convincing, he would be livid. "After seeing your mood swings in the hospital…" she carefully began to explain. "I thought it would be best if –"

"If you drugged me against my wishes," he interrupted angrily.

She shook her head. "I did it _without_ your consent, not _against _it" she corrected peevishly.

"Either way, you've been giving me something I don't need," House practically snarled, throwing the pill at her. The drug falling somewhere on the floor in front of her, she couldn't see it. Only the sound of the pill pinging lightly on the ground filled her ears.

Hands on her hips, Cuddy fought back, "Oh, I would think that if there's one thing you _clearly_ need, it's an antidepressant."

He lumbered around the couch and towards her, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Your opinion. _Not_ mine. And since only one of our opinions actually counts for anything…"

"I'm your doctor."

He scoffed at the idea. "Not anymore."

And though part of her was sure it was wrong to do it, she threatened him anyway. "Then I guess you'll have to find somebody else to write your prescriptions for Vicodin from now on."

Betrayal quickly flashed across his face before an odd combination of both fury and acceptance took over, letting her know that he hated her for threatening that. He despised her for it, and yet at the same time, House was clearly resigned to the fact that he needed the pills.

But he fought her anyway by calling her bluff. "You wouldn't do that. You might be a masochist, but I doubt even _you_ would want to deal with me going through withdrawal."

She smiled humorlessly. "Right, because you in withdrawal is all that different than how you are now?" She laughed loudly, adding, "The only difference between that and _this_ is that you would be in _pain_, which, frankly, I can live with."

"Fine," he dismissed.

"'Fine'?"

"Well, since being without Vicodin is less of a pain than dealing with you…" He puffed his cheeks with air before exhaling loudly. "I choose that."

Turning away from her, House headed towards the bedroom. As his footsteps got fainter and fainter, Cuddy was left in near silence with only the question of what the _hell_ just happened to keep her company.

Rubbing her forehead, she couldn't help but think that that was absolutely the opposite of how she wanted this conversation to go. She'd hoped that, by telling him about Wilson, House would call him. But now he'd discovered the antidepressants, probably because he'd been looking so hard for something to distract himself from the news that she'd talked to Wilson. And with that information in his head, he'd reacted to the new medication in the worst way possible. And now…

What, he wasn't going to take any prescription medication, because he was pissed at _her_?

This was not what she wanted, she thought.

Not at _all_.

She sighed, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, frustrated with the knowledge that she was going to have to be the bigger person and apologize. Which sounded about as enticing as a root canal, but nevertheless, she found herself headed towards the bedroom.

When she entered the room, she saw him, lying on top of the unmade bed. The sheets were down around his bare feet, his face half buried into a pillow. And though there was absolutely no chance that he hadn't heard her come into the room, he didn't look back at her or acknowledge her presence at all.

Quietly moving around to the other side of the bed, Cuddy put herself directly in House's line of sight. He, thankfully, didn't turn away like a child, instead curiously watching her as she knelt down by the bed so they were eye-to-eye.

"You're right," she said, the words as close to an apology as she really wanted to get. "I should have told you about the antidepressants."

He stubbornly agreed, "I know," not giving her an inch to work with.

"If I kept it from you," she told him, trying not to become angry. "It's because I was worried that you would refuse to take it, and I wasn't going to risk that." Placing one of her hands on the bed in front of him, she resisted the urge to touch him – but just barely. "Because I knew then what I know now, and that's that you… really should be on them."

"No."

Frowning, she pushed a little more. "I get that you don't want to admit that anything's wrong. I get that you want to pretend that… everything is _normal_. But I also know that, if this were your patient, you wouldn't hesitate to put that person on an MAOI or an SSRI."

He didn't bother with a denial that they both knew would be untrue, which Cuddy took as a sign that she could push him further. Revealing to him what she'd known all along, she told him, "I know that you've been trying to hide your… _emotions_ from me. And don't get me wrong, House. You're good at it. But, at the moment, we _live_ together."

He had a particularly disdainful look on his face at that fact but still said nothing. So she continued, informing him, "You can't hide everything every minute of the day. And I've _seen_ that all of this is affecting you. And I don't know how much of that is a side effect of your injury," she conceded, holding a hand up to stop him from making that protestation. "But either way, whatever you're feeling now… it's going to be a million times worse if you _stop_ taking the drugs." Touching his shoulder then, Cuddy asked solemnly, "Do you _really_ want to know what that's like?"

As soon as the question had been uttered, she knew she had gone too far. Because she was no longer acting as his doctor at that moment, no longer an impartial observer. Because she was manipulating him, she realized, using fear to get him to do what she wanted.

And it seemed so _wrong_ to do that – not only because she was violating so many medical ethics by doing so, but also because…

She had no real reason to believe that the antidepressants were working.

She had no evidence to suggest that _off_ the drugs things would be any better or worse. And Cuddy was absolutely certain he was going to point that out to her.

But instead, shockingly, House nodded his head, muttering, "Fine."

The refusal she'd been expecting never coming, she blinked a few times to make sure she hadn't imagined his acceptance. And when it became clear that he _had_ agreed to take the antidepressants, she was even more surprised to find that she wasn't pleased with her victory.

But then… how could she be?

It either meant House no longer had the capacity to see through her thin rhetoric. Or, and this was the more than likely scenario, he was so afraid that things could get worse that he agreed with her out of fear. Which only made Cuddy wonder, as she nodded her head and stood up, just how bad things really were inside of House's head.

_End (9/15)_


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Notes: Thank you very much to DoctorLisaCuddy, Queen S of Randomness 016, passionfornight, i luv ewansmile, and lhoma320 for the awesome reviews. I really cannot say how much I appreciate the encouragement. Also thanks to my beta for her help.

_Disclaimer: Just because I wished I owned it doesn't mean I do. Don't sue. _

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Ten: Shifting Shadows  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Climate change is any long-term significant change in the expected patterns of average weather of a specific region over an appropriately significant period of time." – "Climate Change," Wikipedia_

He was currently sprawled out on the couch, his belly comfortably full with dinner and body warm from the golden blanket draped over him. His feet were stretched out on Cuddy's lap, despite her protestations, her inability to resist the guilt trip he'd placed on her ("But my leg hurts") winning in the end. His face half-buried in a pillow, House was teetering on the edge of sleep. The tinnitus, the result of the antidepressant, his head injury, or both, had receded to a dull roar earlier in the evening, and now, the noise was not entirely intrusive. And it did not go unnoticed by him that this was the most content he'd been since the accident.

Hell, he was willing to go further than that and say that this was the most content he'd been in a _long_ time.

Of course… a lot of that probably had to do with the extra painkillers she'd given him. They'd been sitting on the couch, and House's main intention had been annoy the crap out of her. Because as used to her as he was becoming, he understood that part of him would never grow tired of irritating her (it was _way_ too fun). But his whining had had another purpose: to get her ass off the sofa so he could stretch out.

It hadn't really been about his leg; he'd been in pain, yes, but it hadn't been all that horrible. On a scale of one to ten, his pain had been, at most, a five, which was pretty average for him. But Cuddy had given him the drugs anyway _and_ eventually let him stretch out, because, in her own words, "Your whining is giving me a migraine, and I need to finish looking over these budget reports."

At the time, he'd said that bribery was beneath her, had said it, naturally, _after_ she'd handed him the pill. And even if he did believe that to be true, right now, House was too content to care. Or maybe he should say that he was too _stoned_ to care. Because although he could have handled the drugs in his system under normal circumstances, Cuddy's rigid and complex drug schedule had made him less able to do that.

His head trauma probably – okay, _definitely_ – didn't help matters, he thought, burying his smirking face into the pillow underneath his head. In all likelihood, if he were alone, House realized he probably would have giggled – actually _giggled_ – at that particular thought. Which must have meant that he really _was_ high out of his mind, if the idea that brain damage, specifically his _own_ potential brain damage, seemed more amusing than anything else.

Ill at ease with the possibility that he was going to start laughing, House turned his head lazily in Cuddy's direction. She was glancing down at a file resting precariously on the sofa arm. One of her arms was propping up her head, the other stuffed between the couch cushions and her back. And although it was hard to tell exactly what she was doing, he thought he could make out her hand trying to rub circles along the muscles that had clearly been bothering her for, by his estimations, at least a week.

Which was probably, if he had to guess, the result of sleeping in a hospital recliner and now his chaise for weeks.

Not that he had any intention of vocalizing his theories to her, he told himself. Because, although he could use her obviously aching back to try and shove her out the door, he also realized that doing so would mean that… it would at least _seem_ that he cared about her wellbeing. And granted, maybe he _did_ care about her in that way; at the moment, she was the closest thing she had to a best friend, he realized, but…

He wasn't going to say any of that _out loud_.

On the other hand, he didn't have any problem pleasantly announcing to her at that moment, "I am _really_ high."

"I can tell," she replied dryly, still gazing at the file of information in front of her.

"No, you can't," he said quickly, sounding petulant and childish even to his own hazy mind.

Glancing over at him, Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You just said, 'I am really high.' _That_ means you're wasted."

"And whose fault is that?"

She waved him off. "I was tired of listening to you _whine_."

Which would make sense, House thought, if she hadn't had years upon _years_ of experience listening to him whine, making her tolerance for it exceptionally high. And considering she had _chosen _to be here, he was sure that she'd prepared herself for him to be an especially giant dick. And since he hadn't been _extremely_ annoying as of late (no more so than usual, anyway), he couldn't help but think that she was either lying or something else was going on. "That's interesting," he spoke aloud without entirely meaning to.

She shook her head. "It's _really_ not. I can assure you."

Her denial fell on deaf ears, as he had already seized hold of the puzzle in front of him. And it didn't matter what she said, what she tried to convince him of; he'd been awoken by what was in front of him, and he wouldn't be able to rest now until he had an answer to one question: what was bothering Cuddy?

"What day is it," he asked suddenly, trying to push past his haze in order to count.

"If that's your not so subtle way of suggesting that I have my period –"

"It is."

Angrily Cuddy sighed, her body exhaling air in a loud huff. "I'm _pretty_ sure it's possible for me to be annoyed by you without having hormonal issues."

"'Possible'? Or what's actually going on?"

Pushing her work to the side for the moment, she turned to him. As she placed a warm hand on one of his ankles, she informed him, "I don't have my period, House." The words came out in such a way that made it absolutely clear that she was telling the truth while also making her disbelief that she was actually confessing such a thing to him obvious as well.

"Okay. Then –"

"I'm just tired," she interrupted dismissively. "You keep me up when you can't sleep, and that would be fine, if I didn't still have to do things around here and for the hospital." Gesturing to her back, she dryly added as an afterthought, "Or if I hadn't been sleeping on a chair for the last month."

"So this is my fault," House deduced.

She shook her head in a manner so vigorous that his own started pounding in sympathy. "No," she replied emphatically. "I don't blame you… I'm not mad. Like I said – I'm tired. And I… _selfishly_ gave you the pills to shut you up, because I thought that would be easier than fighting you and telling you to wait until you _could_ take a pill."

Cuddy laughed humorlessly then, laughed in the kind of way someone only did when they were absolutely exhausted. "And it worked. You were quiet for two hours, and I was able to do work."

He closed his eyes then, her words trickling past the clouds of his drug-induced haze not unlike the first few drops of a light summer rain.

… Yeah, he was _definitely_ high if he were making _that_ metaphor – no, simile… whatever it was.

Eventually he asked, "So when you finally decide to smother me with a pillow in the middle of the night, you'll let me know, right?"

Her brow furrowing in confusion, Cuddy asked, "Excuse me?"

"You sound like one of those mothers right before she decides to off her kid," he explained. "And I'm just sayin' – let me know before you slip the arsenic in my food."

The hand resting on his ankle squeezed reassuringly. "I have no plans to kill you. I've put way too much time and energy into making you_ healthy_ to turn around and kill you," she told him dryly.

"That's what they all say before, you know, they _do_ it," he replied grimly.

And even though the conversation ended there, hours later, Cuddy was still reliving it in her mind. His words had been so dark, the implication behind them so horrible, that she couldn't help but wonder just how much he believed them to be true.

To be sure, she wouldn't _ever_ do what he was saying she would do. As annoying as he was, as tired as she was, Cuddy knew that she would never _murder_ him. Yell at him, switch some of his drugs to laxatives, yes, but actually hurting him? No, she told herself, shaking her head in disgust at the thought.

Of course, no amount of denial would make him believe otherwise; she knew that much as well. Because whatever ideas about friendship he had, Cuddy had no doubt that losing Wilson, or at least _thinking_ he'd lost Wilson, had ruined those beliefs. So she'd let House think whatever he'd wanted to think, allowing him to go to bed with that thought in his mind.

But now, that seemed like an admittance on her part, and it hadn't been; it _wasn't_.

Shaking her head, Cuddy rolled over to look at the empty couch. There wasn't anything she could do about that now, she told herself, knowing that House was in the bedroom fast asleep while she was out here on his chaise wide awake.

A pinching feeling attacking her lower back, she rolled over once more. All of the nights she'd spent without a bed were quickly catching up to her. She'd been trying to ignore the pain for almost a week, but now she couldn't convince herself that it was just a passing ache, that it was something that would disappear on its own. And although she'd been digging into her secret stash of Aspirin since it had started, Cuddy understood that the pain wouldn't be going away until she had a proper night's rest.

But at the moment, it seemed like the one thing she couldn't have was a night in _any_ bed, much less her own. Because she couldn't go home, leaving House and kicking Wilson out unacceptable consequences of that, and she certainly couldn't kick House out of his own bed. Truthfully, even if she _wanted_ to make him spend the night on the couch, it wouldn't be worth it. By the time she finished fighting with him for the bed, the street would be too noisy for him to sleep. Which would mean that he would keep her awake, even if she did have the bed.

A pout on her face, Cuddy shifted some more on the chair at the thought. Her hands balling themselves into fists, she half-heartedly punched the chaise beneath her. God, it seemed like this stupid thing was _against_ her, which was, admittedly, insane to think. But given that it had to be approaching one in the morning, given that she hadn't fallen asleep yet, she couldn't help but think it. And it was certainly better to contemplate that than the fact that she had _no_ chance of getting a good night's rest.

It was definitely better than considering the niggling idea in the back of her mind anyway; a thought so stupid she didn't even want to let it push its way to the forefront of her mind, it was only because of her exhaustion that she mulled over the idea of sneaking into the bedroom and sleeping in House's bed right _next_ to him.

If she were in her right mind, she knew she'd be focusing on all the ways _that_ would go wrong. She'd be thinking of how she could wake him up and start a fight with him or how he would wake up and then not be able to go back to bed, resulting in a sleepless night for her anyway.

_Or_ she'd be considering how getting into bed with him was a dangerous prospect, the possibility of them having sex something she wouldn't have been able to ignore. Because although Cuddy had no intention of _ever_ sleeping with him [again], were she in her right mind, she would have understood how easy it would have been for them to do it. He had a head injury that predisposed him to disinhibition (as though he needed a reason to throw caution to the wind), and she was so exhausted that she felt drunk. And the combination of the two could quickly lead to something bad; especially if he reacted to her climbing in bed with him by trying to freak her out by coming onto her, she _knew_ they would do something stupid; he would hit on her, and she would let him do it to stay where she was, and one thing would lead to another…

And it would be bad.

It would end _bad_.

And part of her was still able to recognize that, despite her weary mind that was probably not entirely unlike House's with his head injury. But… instead of focusing on all of the ways crawling into bed with him could end in disaster, Cuddy was thinking of all the ways she could do it and _get away_ with it.

Covering her face with her hands, she groaned quietly. House was the one with the traumatic brain injury, but _she_ was the one, she scolded silently, who had clearly lost her mind. Because if she were here seriously thinking about how putting on socks would make her footsteps to the bedroom quieter, then she couldn't believe she had an ounce of sanity left inside of her body.

Thinking about it for a split second more, as her back twinged viciously, Cuddy made her decision. If she were crazy, then she might as well benefit from her insanity and give her back a break, she told herself. And if House had a problem with that, then he could be the one to spend the night on a couch that smelled like urine or an uncomfortable chaise.

Grabbing a pair of socks out of her overnight bag, she tiredly struggled to put them on her cold feet. Her fingers were fumbling to complete the normally easy task, her dark hair falling into her line of sight. But eventually, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she tried to concentrate, she mastered the apparently complicated art of getting dressed.

Cuddy carefully tiptoed towards the bedroom, trying very hard not to make noise. Which was also more difficult than it should have been, her legs unsteady from the need for slumber; honestly, she couldn't help but think that, if she were taking a sobriety test right now, she would fail. And whether it was sheer luck or not, she didn't know, but somehow she managed to avoid stumbling into the walls as she got closer and closer to the bedroom.

But her luck, what little she had, ran out the second she gingerly climbed into the open spot on the bed. Still on her knees and palms of her hands, she scowled as House, apparently awake, said, "_This_ is interesting." It was dark in the room, but she didn't need any light to know that he was smirking.

Slumping down on the bed, she pouted. "I thought you were asleep."

House scoffed loudly as he rolled on his side to face her. "A _desperate_ woman climbs into my bed, I know about it," he informed her proudly, assessing her defeated body that was lazily strewn out on top of the covers. "Of course, what you're desperate for, I don't know," he admitted after a second. "It's either sex or you really _are_ planning on killing me."

Trying to push away the realization that she was going to be back on the chaise in no time, Cuddy took the opportunity to reiterate, "I'm not going to kill you, House."

"Oh _goody_. Then you've gone for the more painful option and decided to give my booty a call."

"_No_," she said immediately, her voice loud and mind in shock. "No, that's not why I'm here at _all_."

House sighed. "I'm listening."

Crawling up the bed, Cuddy laid her head down on the free pillow. Stretching her body out, she could _already_ feel her back muscles relax a little; she could _already _tell that, if he let her stay in the bed tonight, she would feel so much better tomorrow. And she understood then how important it was for her to convince him that she should stay here. Taking a deep breath, she explained, "It's my back. I have spent… _way_ too much time sleeping in chairs for the last _month_, and I can't do it anymore. I'm in pain, and I thought that I could, I don't know, sleep in here for _one_ night and then be okay."

"Sleep on the couch," he suggested immediately.

She shook her head. "That sofa smells like pee."

"Didn't stop you from sitting on it earlier."

"Well, I wasn't sitting on the part that smelled like pee," she defended quickly. "But if I'm lying on the sofa, then there's no way to avoid the cushion you apparently _urinated_ on when you were too drunk or lazy to get up and use the bathroom. Which means instead of sleeping, I'm wondering what the hell is wrong with you," she hissed angrily.

He sighed. "Always quick to assume it's me, aren't you?" His voice was filled with dismay. "Always quick to believe that _I'm_ the one who peed on the metaphorical couch – or in this case the actual couch."

Scowling in the dark, Cuddy was trying to figure out his line of reasoning, was _trying_ to understand what it was he was trying to tell her. But she could only think of one thing. "So, what, are you telling me you and a prostitute engaged in some… I don't know, water sports? As though that's supposed to make me feel any better?"

"_No_," he replied snottily. "If you _must_ know, _Wilson_ was the one who peed on the couch."

She sighed, knowing she would regret saying it. "Wilson's a bed wetter."

"Yup."

And when he didn't offer her any context, no I-stuck-his-hand-in-a-bowl-of-hot-water admittance, Cuddy realized: Wilson wet the bed.

On his own.

With no apparent help from House.

And since Wilson was currently in _her_ own, probably sleeping in _her_ bed…

"Oh. Well, that's just great," she said loudly, bitterly. "You couldn't have told me that _before_ I decided to let him stay in my home?"

Through the darkness, Cuddy could see him shrug. "I _didn't_ know he was staying there."

He didn't say anything after that, but then again, he didn't really need to. He was right, after all; he couldn't have possibly warned her about Wilson's… _issue_, considering House had had no idea that Wilson was staying with her. And honestly, she'd intended to keep it that way, until it seemed like a good time to tell House the truth anyway. And even to her own mind, right now hadn't been the right time to tell him.

But she had anyway, which made her feel like a complete idiot.

Wiping her face with the palm of her hand, Cuddy realized quickly that there was no taking it back. She couldn't pretend that she'd misspoken or that her confession was nothing more than sleep-induced nonsense. House would never believe that, would never settle for it, and on the off chance that he _did_ accept it, he would distrust every other thing she ever said and dismiss it as her being tired.

She could just see it; he'd be demanding some awful, dangerous, irrelevant test for one of his patients, and she would say no, and he'd do it anyway, brushing her concerns off as nothing more than exhaustion. So really, the only choice she had was to accept her mistake and move on, never letting him know that she hadn't meant to tell him in that moment.

Carefully Cuddy asked, "Does that bother you?"

"Does _what_ bother me?" He sounded irritable but no more so than usual.

She rolled her eyes as she clarified, "Are you bothered by the fact that Wilson's staying at my house?"

"Nope."

His one word answer was too brief to give her any insight into what he might be feeling. His tone perfectly controlled, it was hard to know whether he cared or didn't, and Cuddy knew better than to try and guess what he was feeling. Because if she guessed wrong, he would act as though she'd said something idiotic like "the earth is flat." And if she were wrong, he would act the same anyway, so it didn't really matter.

"Are you sure?" she asked delicately. "Because I can –"

House rolled away from her, muttering over his shoulder, "If you're going to stay here, then shut the hell up."

He sounded only the slightest bit annoyed, sounded like someone who really did just want to go back to bed and not like someone who was simply trying to brush her off. Which made her think that he didn't care about Wilson at all anymore, because if he _had_ still cared, wouldn't he be badgering her for an explanation, for answers?

Shocked by this development, Cuddy could only reply stunned, "O-okay."

Slipping under the covers next to him, she glanced at him once more before falling asleep.

Without exaggeration, it was the greatest night of sleep she'd had in a month – _easily_. Because instead of being scrunched up into a chair, she could stretch out; instead of huddling into her own body for warmth, instead of clinging to a thin blanket for some heat, she had sheets and a comforter to do the job. And when she woke up, Cuddy couldn't help but feel completely, entirely, _deliciously _rested.

House, on the other hand… clearly did not feel the same way; the second she opened her eyes and glanced towards him, she could tell that he hadn't slept at all after she'd joined him.

He was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard. His good leg was stretched out, lying on top of the bedspread while the other gangly limb was still tucked underneath the blankets. His hair was messy, messier than hers even, and his pajamas were rumpled in the way they became when you slept in them all night long.

But he obviously hadn't slept.

His eyes were open but unfocused behind heavy eyelids that refused to stay shut. He looked weary, exhausted in a way that seemed completely different than she had felt.

Sitting up, Cuddy asked, her voice groggy with sleep, "House?" He turned to look at her but said nothing. So she continued. "Are you okay? Are you – is it your leg?"

But still, he said nothing, simply shaking his head no.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and low, "No."

She let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Somehow simultaneously relieved that he was talking to her and worried about him, she thought that this was one of least enjoyable ways to wake up.

Frowning a little, Cuddy reminded him, "House, you know you can't do that. You _need_ to rest." Reaching over she pulled the sheets out from under his bared leg and tucked him back in bed. The action almost second nature to her, she wondered when she'd gone from being a doctor to being House's _mother_.

She quickly pushed the thought to the side, refusing to consider it any further. "C'mon. Lie down. You need to sleep."

But he didn't move.

Instead, his gaze suddenly turned steely, and he asked, "Why did you tell me about Wilson?"

Surprised by the question, she asked, stunned, "What?"

So he repeated himself more loudly. "_Why_ did you tell me that Wilson is at your place?" Not giving her a chance to respond, House continued, "Did you think that that was going to make me _jealous_? Did you think I was –"

"Of course not," she interrupted quickly. "It was a –"

"Then you thought, what? I would stay awake all night wondering why everyone suddenly decided to play musical _beds_ and come to the conclusion that he's at your place, because he misses precious, _dead_ Amber and wishes he were in _my_ place and I were in _her_ place?"

He was red in the face when he finished talking, his eyes dangerously bright. And as she slowly deciphered what it was that he was saying, she could see an almost painful amount of sadness in him. Because, parsing each of his words out, she came to understand that he had spent the night mulling over just how much Wilson hated him.

Placing a hand on his covered knee, Cuddy tried to reassure him, "I didn't tell you that he was staying at my house to make you do that. I _wouldn't_ do that," she said, becoming slightly offended at the accusation. "It was a mistake… just like the one you made when you decided to get drunk and call Wilson's apartment."

He visibly flinched at the reminder of what had happened but said nothing. So she kept talking, "He needed some place to go, and he _asked_ me for help." She shrugged, not really knowing how much more she could justify what she had done; he'd needed help, and as his friend, Cuddy had given it to him. And there really wasn't any more to say about it than that.

Steering the conversation deftly back to House, she told him, "He doesn't hate you. He just –"

House interrupted viciously, "He should hate me."

But no matter how vehemently the words had been spoken, she refused to believe that that was what he truly believed. Or that wasn't right, she mentally corrected immediately; she _could_ actually believe at this point that House honestly thought that Wilson should hate him.

That his best friend's hatred was something he _wanted_ – no, she would never be convinced of _that_. And that he was even trying to do that, that he even _seemed_ beyond hope broke her heart, had her pulling him into a hug just as fierce as his words had been.

Her arms wrapping around him quickly, she could immediately feel how tense he was, almost as easily as she could feel his warm skin through the thin cotton of his t-shirt in fact. As she pulled him close, she wasn't surprised – not in the _least_ – that he didn't hug her back. But his head did fall to her shoulder slowly, and although that probably had _everything_ to with his complete lack of sleep, it was all the reason she needed to continue.

Quietly, Cuddy said, "He doesn't hate you, and I _know_ you don't want him to, even if you think he should." Turning her head towards his neck, she advised him, "But if you don't want him to hate you, then you _have_ to talk to him. I can't do it for you, and he's not going to. _You_ have to be the one to do it."

He didn't say anything at first, which she initially took as a good a sign, because at least it meant that he was _considering_ what she was saying. But as the seconds ticked by and he still didn't have any retort or come back, she wondered if he'd been listening at all. Because if he'd _really_ been thinking about her advice, then House would surely have formed some sort of response by now.

"House?" she asked cautiously.

"Sorry," he told her immediately, clearing his throat. "It's just that right now I have a _really_ great view of your rack, so I wasn't going to say anything."

Scowling Cuddy pulled away from him, defensively pulling the t-shirt she'd worn to bed up in the process. Which made him frown. "Well, now I can't see anything," he said sadly.

"Did you hear a word I said?"

He pretended to ponder. "Hmm… lets see. Boobs, words," he said slowly, using two hands to show that he were weighing his options. "Is that even a contest?"

Folding her arms across her chest, she explained irritably, "I'm _not_ here to be your personal _porn_."

"Now that's a shame. Your ass would be perfect for the job." And though part of her understood that he was teasing, she couldn't entirely deny herself the pleasure of knowing that he was being earnest as well.

So she changed the subject. "You need sleep."

He smirked. "Show me some nip, and I will."

She was taken aback by the crassness of his words. "You're disgusting. And delusional if you think I'm going to _flash_ you in order to get you to _sleep_. I mean, _really_, if those are your terms, stay awake for all I care."

With a mocking pout on his face, House asked her, "You're not concerned about my well being?"

"You're right," Cuddy answered, pretending to have had a realization. "I'll show you my breasts, and then, while you sleep, I'll go take your antibiotics. And in a few hours, we can have unprotected sex and have your medications administered that way."

"See, _now_ we're on the same page."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of this conversation. As she got out of bed, she ordered, "Go to sleep. Or don't. I don't care. But in the end, _you're_ going to be the one who's miserable."

Leaving the room, she was more than grateful when she glanced behind her shoulder and saw that he was, thankfully, taking her advice; he was asleep before she even managed to close the bedroom door behind her.

When he woke up a few hours later, House was immediately taken aback by the smell filling his nostrils.

Food.

Although the idea of stabbing himself in the balls with a rusty fork seemed more appealing than saying it out loud to her, he couldn't deny to himself that Cuddy was a good cook. And he thought, as his stomach began to rumble loudly, that, as annoying as she was, she at least had her uses.

But as was her way, any good will he had toward her was promptly destroyed within minutes of being in the same room with her. Because the second he walked into the kitchen, Cuddy told him, "Your mother called." Which would have been fine on its own, he supposed, except she _had_ to add, "You should call her back; she's worried about you."

Pulling one of the blackberries off of the spinach salad she was making, he popped it into his mouth. As he bit down on the fruit, he contemplated what she was saying. And then, realizing the implication of her words, he swallowed hard. "That makes it sound as though you were talking to her."

She was currently cutting up some steak to, apparently, put on top of the salad, but she paused at his words. And _that_ did not go unnoticed by him, the subtle act of stopping letting him know that she _had_ talked to his mother. "I was going to let your answering machine get it," Cuddy said quietly, cautiously. "But she sounded worried that she hadn't talked to you in a long time, and –"

His hands curled into fists at his sides. "A _month_ hardly counts as a 'long time.' I know that since _you_ have to call _your_ Mommy every day, even while you're at work, it would seem like a long time, but –"

"I have told you a _million_ times to _stop_ breaking into _my_ office," she reminded him in anger, the knife in her hands hacking viciously through the meat. "I understand that you _think_ looking at my phone logs and my emails and my Internet searches is interesting, but it's not. So stop it," she ordered.

But instead of feeling properly admonished, he was furious. Antidepressants and their haze be damned, there was no other way to describe what he felt at that moment. Because the _hypocrisy_, _her_ hypocrisy ate away at what little lock had been keeping some of his wilder emotions under wraps. And there was no amount of patience or pills in the _world_ that could keep him from wrathfully wondering just _why_ it was okay for _her_ to invade _his_ life anytime she wanted to.

Why could _she_ do it and still get angry when _he_ did the same thing to _her_?

Before he had a chance to ask her that, however, Cuddy told him, "And your _mother_ was the one who said it had been a long time. Not me. So you can stop snapping at me and pick up the damn phone."

But House didn't do what she wanted, nor was he going to until he knew exactly what she had said. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her that you were in a _bus_ accident, if that's what you mean."

A sound of frustration got caught in the back of his throat. "_No_, that's _not_ what I mean. If that _were_ what I meant, that's what I have asked. But since I asked – "

"When I picked up the phone," Cuddy interrupted, speaking so loudly over him that his head throbbed. "She thought that she had called the hospital by accident and that I was Dr. Cameron. And before I could correct her, she recognized the sound of my voice."

"And then what?" he asked in annoyance, trying to hurry the story along. "You two gabbed on the phone for hours, arguing who's the _dreamiest_ American Idol contestant?"

Scowling she replied, "Don't be an idiot. She wanted to know why I was at your apartment."

"So then you explained to her that you were nagging and showing your boobs to me?"

"I'm not _nagging_ you," she said defensively, her gaze narrowing on him. "And I didn't _show_ you my breasts."

He smirked. "Well, I saw them."

"Congratulations" was her dry response. "But somehow I didn't think your mother would be too pleased to know she gave birth to a complete _pervert_." As she arranged the cool strips of steak onto the dark green bed of spinach, she told him, "I lied to her. I said something about papers and you hiding them here from me to waste my time, and she believed me."

House looked her over skeptically. "And that's it?"

"That's it," she replied with a shrug. "Now, are you going to call her back?"

He stepped closer to her, asking pointedly, "Are _you_ going to insinuate yourself into every aspect of _my_ personal life?"

It was immediately obvious that she didn't like how close he was. A fine blush covering her cheeks, Cuddy shifted a little on her feet. Her mouth opening and closing a few times, she eventually turned away from him. And when she spoke, her denial sounded weak to his ears. "That's not what I'm –"

"It _is_ what you're doing. And while that seems like a whole lot of fun whenever I decide to spend time with a hooker, it seems a _lot_ less interesting the rest of the time."

"That may be true. But you're wrong. I don't have any particular interest in your life," she said as she began to rummage through the cabinets for dishes.

"And yet you're here, talking to my mother, taking my calls, making me – "

"And _maybe_ if you did those things _yourself_, I wouldn't have to," she suggested curtly. Her hands shaking a little, she dished up the salad onto plates and said, abruptly changing the subject, "Whatever. Lunch is ready."

But he made no move to grab the proffered plate of food. His appetite somehow lost in the middle of the argument, House had no desire to eat – _especially _not with the one person he wanted to kill at the moment.

Waving the salad in front of him mockingly, Cuddy told him, "Take it."

"_No_."

Which made her roll her eyes. "What – you're not going to eat now? Starve yourself in protest?"

He pretended to consider her question. "It does seem like the smart thing to do," he eventually replied, the tone of his voice cutting. "Definitely seems like a more efficient use of time than nagging and begging someone to do something, doesn't it?"

Looking at her carefully, House watched as his words sank into her abysmally small brain. As if somehow realizing that she had failed to get through to him, she began to frown, the faint smile lines on her face instantaneously becoming more pronounced. And in place of the anger she was so keenly radiating off only moments previously was a tangible sense of defeat. Which secretly pleased him.

Turning away from him, Cuddy silently placed both plates onto the kitchen counter. Shrugging she swallowed hard, and when she did speak, her voice was softer, rougher than he had ever recalled it being. "I don't know what you expect me to do, House." She took a deep breath and conceded, "I know that you want me to stay out of your life. But… I also know that part of you doesn't want to lose Wilson. Part of you _does_ want me to interfere, I think, and if you –"

"Part of me would also like you to hang yourself so I won't have to deal with you ever again," he snarled, knowing the words were nothing short of spiteful. And worse, House thought, they weren't even _true_, for the most part, because he _did_, at times, appreciate her company, appreciate what she was doing.

But he'd said it; he'd told her that he wanted her dead, and there was no taking that back. Although it wasn't exactly like he really wanted to take it back; no apology within him dying to escape, he might not have meant to say it – he might have known that he _shouldn't_ have said it. But he wasn't too upset about the sentiment.

If anything, he were willing to push it further, apparently, because when he spoke again, he asked her, "You gonna do that too?"

In all honesty, House expected her to respond with anger. In his mind, if he were picturing this conversation, she'd do everything short of beating the hell out of him. She would yell and screech like the harpy she could always so easily turn into. She would probably move easily back into awful _bitch_ by denying him Vicodin or something else he wanted, and he would be miserable for a few days until he'd hit some arbitrary mark on the scale of misery. And then she'd cave and give him the drugs or his cable or heat back, and they'd move on as though he hadn't hurt her and she hadn't returned the favor; they would simply go back to the way things were, never once considering how horribly abusive they could be to one another.

It was what they knew, what they did, and there was nothing about his words now that should have made her react differently.

But she did nonetheless. Her eyes suddenly becoming very sad, she looked at him carefully for a moment, almost as though she were trying to assess whether or not he was telling the truth. And though his words had been a lie – or at least, had not been completely true – it didn't seem to matter to her; she didn't seem to recognize that fact.

As she turned and began to walk away from him, House knew down to the core of his being that she believed him.

He limped after her, not saying anything but curious to see what she was going to do nevertheless. And what she was going to do became immediately apparent, as she reached into the coat closet and grabbed her jacket. Jerkily pulling the wool coat on, Cuddy glared at him, finally saying, "I have spent a _lot_ of my time taking care of you."

"I didn't ask you to," he defended immediately.

"No, you didn't." She nodded her head in agreement.

His next words were not meant to sound as accusatory as they did, but somehow he couldn't help it. "You volunteered."

Again, she agreed. "Yes, I did." Her lips pursing together for a split second, Cuddy explained to him, "And I was hoping that you would take that into consideration, that, despite _all_ of your protestations, you could at least appreciate what I was giving up for _you_."

He kept his gaze on her, his eyes watching her intently as she angrily buttoned her coat and reached over towards the desk to grab her purse. Looking at him furiously, she accused, "But you don't appreciate it at all. _You_ actually think it's a _weakness_ to be kind to someone else. You don't respect what I'm doing for you. You actually resent it – and _me_."

She stalked towards the front door, apparently not giving him a chance to refute her words.

Not that he really could, he admitted to himself; Cuddy was right after all. As much as she might have hoped that he could appreciate all of her help, as much as he might have recognized that he _should_ appreciate her help…

A very large part of him could not.

And that meant that she wasn't wrong about him. As _screwed up_ as it was, as screwed up as _he_ was, she wasn't wrong. And he didn't know how to deny something that she would so easily see through. So he simply asked, his voice perfectly modulated, "You're leaving?"

"Congratulations," she said, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "You're getting what you wanted."

But as she slammed the door shut behind her, House, now completely alone in his apartment, couldn't help but think that this wasn't what he wanted at all.

About a half hour later, as one door remained shut, another was being opened by Wilson, who had already twisted the handle before realizing that it wasn't exactly his place – _literally_ – to greet anyone. But already halfway through the motion, he knew, even in his half-drunken mind, that he was committed to it; he couldn't really shut the door in the person's face. And as the metal hinges creaked from the motion, he scrambled quickly for an excuse, for a _reason_ to explain to the stranger why he was staying at his boss's house. His mind already imagining the worst possible case scenario, he was more than a little relieved to see Cuddy standing on her own front porch.

But the sigh he exhaled almost immediately changed into a nervous chuckle. Because as the seconds ticked by, he was becoming increasingly aware of everything that was awkward and wrong with this picture. There was the fact, of course, that this was _her _house and that it was odd for her to knock, as though he had somehow earned privacy when he'd completely violated hers. Which was evidenced by the fact that he'd found her liquor cabinet and stolen the unopened Galliano her mother had sent her from Italy (as evidenced by the tiny card still attached to the neck of the bottle).

And that was another problem, because he'd already helped himself to a couple drinks this morning. The sweet anise taste still on the tip of his tongue, Wilson had no doubt that she would easily be able to smell it on his breath. Certainly she'd be able to see the telltale yellow stain on his green shirt from when he'd accidentally dribbled downs his chin.

But if she noticed, she didn't say anything right away. Instead she stood on her own front porch with a sympathetic smile on her face. "Can I come in?"

He shrugged, moving out of the way. "It's your house, Cuddy."

"I know," she conceded, stepping through the doorway. "But you're staying here, and I don't want to intrude if –"

As he closed the door, he interrupted, "You're not intruding."

The tone of his voice almost made his words seem like a confession, and it was clearly the beginning of one, because Wilson then added slowly, "Actually… I'm really glad you're here."

Immediately her face lit up, a grateful smile tugging on her lips. And just as quickly as her eyes brightened, she pulled him into a hug that he was all too eager to return in kind.

It was kind of pathetic, actually, the way he all too keenly wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. Especially since he'd received a damn _litany_ of hugs at Amber's funeral, it seemed silly to want this physical contact now.

But there was no way to deny that he did.

Her chin resting on his shoulder, she confessed, "You have no idea how nice it is to have _someone_ appreciate me."

And it was then that Wilson realized with _horror_ that…

Cuddy wasn't here for _him_.

Oh, she was being nice enough, comforting enough, and somewhere inside of her self, she probably did worry about what he was going through.

But that wasn't why she was here.

Because her words said it all, and reading between her lines, he knew that this had nothing to do with him, _his _struggles.

This was all about House.

It had to be.

Pulling away, he said in a low voice, a _disgusted_ voice, "So this is about _him_."

Thankfully she didn't deny it. Looking at him sadly, she explained, "He is…" Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the right words. She settled for "completely messed up."

And although Wilson wasn't going to refute that… well, it was a _fact_ that House was a selfish, screwed up asshole. But at the same time, Wilson had no desire to talk about _him_ any more than he had to. So he told her, "I don't care. I don't want to…" He paused, rubbing his chin with his hand.

He wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to say, but then she spoke, filling in the blank he didn't know how to fill, and for that he was almost immediately grateful. "No, you're right. Lets not talk about House."

She swallowed nervously and reached out for him. Wrapping her hand around the fleshy inside of his elbow, Cuddy began to lead him further into the home towards the living room. "How are you doing?" she asked sympathetically.

Shrugging he replied slowly, the words coming to him at a snail's pace, "I… don't know… how I should answer that. My girlfriend… is dead," he told her, his throat suddenly feeling tight and constricted. "My best friend is the one who _put_ her on that bus."

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, but Wilson cut her off by admitting loudly, "And if _I_ had had _any_ sense at all, I would have cut _him_ off years ago."

Sliding her hand down his arm, she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "This isn't your fault, Wilson. You couldn't have known that –"

"That things would end _this_ badly?" he questioningly finished. "Because I did… You know it too. You knew it when you lied in_ court_ for him," Wilson accused. "You said _then_ that he brought out the worst in people."

She sighed, conceding, "And maybe he does do that. But… that's _completely_ different than saying this _tragic_, _unpredictable_ accident was something you, he, or anyone else could have predicted."

And though part of him could understand what she was saying, could see that what she was saying was rational…

He couldn't accept it as the truth.

And it wasn't as though he didn't want to; if there were one thing he _did_ want to believe, it was that this – Amber's _death_ – wasn't his fault.

But despite that desire, Wilson had come to accept that there was no convincing him that this _wasn't_ preventable in some way. No matter how hard he tried to believe that she was… destined to die, he couldn't.

His guilt wouldn't let him.

"'Predicted,'" he repeated, trying the word on for size. "No. But… we all knew something like this would happen eventually. He nearly killed Stacy's husband to –"

She brushed off the accusation. "He nearly kills _every_ patient."

He laughed loudly, mirthlessly at her response. Pulling away from her, he half-stumbled into the dining room, to the place where he'd left the open bottle of liquor. His back turned to her, Wilson didn't need to look at her to know that she was following him, staring at him.

That was to be expected, he supposed. Considering she hadn't come to the funeral, considering she'd been holing herself up with House for weeks now, it wasn't surprising that she was curious and unfamiliar with this change in Wilson. And somehow that only spurred him to be even more dramatic, to be even _more_ of a train wreck than he already was.

Dramatically, he picked up the bottle. Before now he had maintained some semblance of humanity by drinking out of a glass. But the feel of her wide-eyed gaze on his back only egged him on, and so he practically chugged the sweet liqueur out of the bottle. Swallowing eagerly, he plopped the bottle loudly back down onto the table.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Wilson turned to her. He laughed some more. "Your argument is that, since he has no respect for human life, it's completely surprising that he would kill someone?"

She shook her head. "That's not what I –"

"That's exactly what you're saying," he countered, his words slightly more slurred than they had been when he first opened the door.

She frowned, shaking her head a little. "I know you're… _furious_ with him, and I don't blame you," she said, trying to sound honest but not really succeeding; he knew when he was being placated. "But he's _not_ a bad person."

"He lies, does whatever the hell he wants no matter how much it might hurt somebody else. He's an _addict_ who thinks that everybody else should be at _his_ beck and call, Cuddy, and you _know_ I'm right," he pointed out.

Licking her lips, Cuddy exhaled loudly. "He's not perfect," she said, as though House were somehow just a _tiny_ bit flawed. Grabbing the bottle once more, Wilson chugged a little more as she told him, "But he does care about you, and he wouldn't want –"

The liqueur burned his throat as he swallowed. Sputtering a little, Wilson countered. "Oh, _he_ doesn't give a _crap_ about me." Before she could protest, he held a hand up to stop her. "If he cared, he wouldn't be a _coward_. He would call and apologize. He would be doing _something_ other than sitting in his little apartment feeling sorry for himself."

He went to take another swig from the bottle, but she reached out and pushed the lip of the Galliano away from his mouth. In reaction he glared at her, his angry eyes meeting her own disapproving ones. "He does care," Cuddy insisted. "I know that he does. I've –"

"He _doesn't_," Wilson gritted out.

Which made her angry, made her red in the face as she fought back, "You _don't_ know that, Wilson. You've been _here_ and at your apartment. I've been there; I've seen it – _him._ And he feels so guilty that he _wants_ you to hate him, because he doesn't think he deserves your friendship."

At that moment, he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was clearly hoping he would be the _mature_ one in the friendship, that he would bite the bullet and cave and say something like, "Poor House, I'll call him right away."

And Wilson couldn't deny that she had good reason to feel that way; since the beginning that had been his place in his friendship with House – to be the one who conceded everything, who asked for forgiveness every time, whether he'd done something wrong or not.

But not this time.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

He just couldn't do it. "He doesn't deserve my friendship."

She looked at him carefully before shaking her head. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Wilson stressed. "He got the ball rolling; he was the one who got Amber killed."

But Cuddy wasn't willing to back off quite so easily. "He was also the person who risked his life to _save_ her."

And truthfully that did not go unnoticed by Wilson.

Try as he might to ignore that fact, he couldn't deny that House had tried his hardest to save her. A cruel voice inside of Wilson, however, refused to feel sorry for the other man, whispered inside of him that, if House had done any good, it was to undo his mistake. "He was saving his own ass," he said, writing her point off easily. "That's the only way he works, Lisa," he stressed, hoping that she would wise up to his mistakes before she went ahead and repeated them. "He doesn't do good things, or at least he doesn't do them, because they're good. It's all about his self-interest."

He pointed a shaking finger at her. "You want to believe that he's all puppies and rainbows. But if that were true, he wouldn't only do good things when he screwed up. He wouldn't _only_ do his clinic when you_ make _him. He would _not_ act like some little five-year-old who you have to bribe with candy to take to the dentist's!"

His voice was loud, demanding of attention. Which he clearly got, because once more, she returned to looking at him carefully, assessing him silently. Her eyes roaming over him, she was clearly looking for something. For what, he didn't know.

At first he thought he saw a glint of hope in her irises, a widening of understanding of some sorts. But if that were the case, Cuddy quickly recovered, her gaze easily changing back to something far sadder. And that made him think that she was searching for some sign that he didn't mean what he was saying. But he did; obviously he did, and within seconds, she frowned, knowing that he did as well.

And when she spoke, there was no hope or joy in her voice. "I…" She stopped talking, her lips parting and shutting as she visibly struggled to find the words she wanted. "This whole time, I knew you were in pain, knew you were _suffering_."

"No, _really_?" he mockingly asked, the words acrid to his tongue.

But she didn't respond with anger, continuing in a mournful tone, "You probably won't believe me when I tell you that I've been _so_ worried about you. But I honestly, _truly_ have," she stressed, her voice tight with emotion. "And all this time, all the days I've been with House, taking care of his injuries, a part of me as wondered… how _you_ were doing."

Shaking her head, she paused, once more looking for the right words. And eventually, she shrugged her shoulders, telling him, "After our… fight in the hospital and your phone call, I knew that it would be bad. But…" She frowned sadly, tears in her eyes. "Drinking in the morning and afternoon? Responding to everything I say with the darkest, most sarcastic and judgmental words you can think of? Having no faith in your friends?"

Shame washed hotly through him, her words more damning than he wanted to admit. His ears burning, he reached out for the Galliano on the table and clutched to it like a lifeline. But he didn't drink from it, wouldn't do it in her presence anymore. Because if she were going to continue to judge him for it, then he couldn't bear to do it. Try as he might to shrug off his desperate desire to please everyone and everything, it wasn't an easy thing to do, wasn't something he _could_ do in this situation.

He could not drink nor deny her words. Which meant that he had no choice but to stand there, taking the heat of her accusatory eyes, waiting for her to continue.

And when she did, Cuddy made sure to leave absolutely no pride, no self-confidence or sense of justification within him. Her voice cool, she pointed out, "For someone who hates House, you really are doing your absolute best to _be_ him."

Clenching his jaw tightly, he gritted out, "Go to hell."

But she didn't seem to care about the anger he could feel bubbling to the surface. Instead, if anything, she kept pressing the matter. "Amber wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to self-destruct like…"

He didn't give her a chance to finish the sentence; hurling the half-empty bottle of Galliano past her head, he smirked as the glass slammed into the wall behind her and she gasped in shock, in fear. The golden liqueur splashed every which way from the collision, droplets spraying onto the floor and lazily cascading down the green walls. The bottle completely shattered, dangerous shards of glass flew everywhere, little bits pinging against the floor, walls, and furniture.

Tears streaking her cheeks not unlike the liquor on the wall, Cuddy looked at him completely taken aback by what he had just done. But it wasn't enough to give Wilson pause, to stop him from ordering, "_Don't_ mention her name. _Don't_ act like you know what she would have wanted."

Her voice was shaky, breathy. "Wilson…"

"No." He wasn't going to soften just because she wanted him to. "You didn't even _know_ her. You _don't_ know what she would have wanted. So _shut up_."

Her eyes widening at the maliciousness in his words, Cuddy began to look at him as though she had never seen him before in her life. And yet, despite her obvious shock at his anger, that didn't stop her from speaking, from _continuing_ to push him. "No, you're right," she said sarcastically. "I didn't know Amber at all. I mean, sure, she called my cell phone and my office number at _least_ three times a day to tattle about what House had done to her and to you, but I didn't know her _at all_. I have _no_ idea what she would have wanted for you. You're right; she _probably_ wanted you to be a miserable, cruel _asshole_."

Immediately he sighed, turning away from her. Not unlike a balloon being popped with a sharp needle, he completely deflated, his anger dissipating. Because, finally seeing just how horrible he was being to her, Wilson couldn't continue, couldn't bear to think about how ungrateful, how _House_-like he was being.

One of his hands running through his hair, he apologized. "I'm sorry. Cuddy, I… I'm _so _sorry."

Not daring to look at her, he was shocked when her cool hand settled on his back. And even now, when they were standing shoulder to shoulder, he kept his gaze fixed on an arbitrary piece of the facing wall.

The palm of her hand ran along his back as she consoled, "It's okay… As you're aware, most of the contact I've had with another human being in the last month has been with _House_. A _brain-injured_ House," she stressed.

At that moment, Wilson caught a fraction of a smile out of the corner of his eye. "I'm used to the fighting," Cuddy reassured. "The bottle's a new touch," she conceded with a wry grin on her face. "But I can handle the yelling. I don't need an apology... although it is nice to hear one."

As the seconds passed, he was becoming increasingly aware of the way his body was shaking. Afraid of and ashamed by his own outburst, he had never been that angry before in his life, he thought. Or, if he _had_ been that furious, he'd never responded the way he just did.

Aware of just how lame it sounded, he apologized once more, "I'm sorry."

Her hand moving to his shoulder, she squeezed the joint reassuringly. "I'm not mad. I just want you to be okay."

"Clearly… I'm not," Wilson confessed, gesturing at himself with his hand.

"It's barely been a month, Wilson. You have to give it time."

He didn't say anything back to her, because, although she was not the first person to allude to that old saying – "Time heals everything" – he still wasn't sure how to respond. Because… he wasn't sure it was true; he wasn't sure he could believe that each passing moment meant a step towards "healing."

He wasn't sure he could believe that there would be a time where the sting of House's actions no longer burned him to the core.

And if time were responsible for old wounds scabbing over, Wilson wondered how _much_ time it would take for _this_ to heal. The damage to his soul so overwhelming and deep, he couldn't help but think it would take _years_, at _least_, to get to that point where he could think of Amber without pain coursing through him.

His mouth clamped shut, Wilson didn't respond to Cuddy, because he didn't have the heart to tell her that he would probably be dead before the amount of years it would take to heal him had passed.

Silence awkwardly ensued, the understanding that he needed to say something resting heavily on his shoulders. Because, as much as he knew that he had to tell her that he would be fine, as much as it was somehow his responsibility to reassure her, he couldn't. And so he remained quiet, allowing himself the luxury of accepting her comfort.

Not that it lasted long.

Pulling away from him, Cuddy cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Okay, I'm gonna clean up the glass, and then I'm going to have to go." Her words sounded apologetic towards the end.

But no apology could make up for the loss he was keenly feeling once more. His voice tight, he asked, "Go?"

She at least had the good manners to look upset about it. "I can't stay here. I have to go back."

"To House, you mean," Wilson clarified accusingly.

"Yes." Her reply was honest, apologetic. "I can't leave him by –"

"Oh, _of course_ not," he told her sarcastically, following her as she headed into the kitchen to grab a dustpan and broom.

Rummaging through one of the closets for what she wanted, she didn't look back when she replied dryly, "You make it sound so _unseemly_, as though watching over a person with clear mental and physical impairment, addiction, and depression issues is nothing more than coddling him."

She stood back up, turning around to face him in order to give him a pointed look.

But Wilson wasn't paying attention to that, because he was too busy contemplating what she had just said about House.

Truth be told, the image she painted of him was one Wilson didn't recognize for the most part. Yes, he was familiar with the "physical impairment" part, and as his experiment with the anti-depressants had proven, House's outlook on the world was more than a little chemically based.

But Wilson hadn't realized that there were more… serious ramifications from House's accident.

If Wilson _had _thought about it, he knew he would have realized that the possibility of brain trauma, of brain _damage_ had always been there. Actually, looking at the series of events now, he couldn't help but think that it was probably nothing short of amazing that House had recovered at all. That amount of trauma in such a short period… very rarely did that end well, he knew.

But he hadn't thought about that in the last several weeks much at _all_, really.

And Wilson instantly knew why; it wasn't a matter of being a bad doctor. This wasn't some unintentional oversight on his part. Rather, if he hadn't considered it, it was because he didn't want to.

It was because he didn't want to think _at all_ about what House might have lost.

But now, thanks to Cuddy, Wilson had to.

And truth be told, despite every fiber of his being say that he shouldn't care, some part of him _still_ managed to frown. Try as he might to ignore what she was saying, that little piece of him was _still_ moved by her words, was _still_ saddened by the idea of House being permanently hurt in some way.

And Wilson supposed, as he followed Cuddy back into the dining room, that it was that side of him that had him asking cautiously, "What kind of mental impairment?"

She hesitated at first to tell him, which he thought would have made sense, what with doctor-patient confidentiality and all. But seeing as how they had both violated that rule numerous times to talk about and treat House, he didn't think her hesitation now was justified. And if anything, Wilson found it a bit offensive. "You're not going to tell me?" he asked curiously. "You think I'm going to use whatever you say against –"

"No," she interrupted, quickly dispelling where his thought process was going. "It's got nothing to do with you. I'm just… _concerned_ with how he'll react if he finds out I told you."

Not looking at him, Cuddy tossed the dustpan onto the ground and began to sweep up the glass. "He's not doing great," she admitted carefully. "He's forgetful, has trouble paying attention. He can't sleep if there's noise anywhere _near_ the apartment."

Wilson shrugged. That didn't exactly sound that much of a stretch for House, albeit it wasn't exactly normal behavior for him either. "Has trouble paying attention or just doesn't want to?" Wilson asked pointedly. "So far, you're not telling me anything new. He's probably just doing those things to –"

"He didn't notice that I was _dosing_ him with _antidepressants_ until the other day when he looked down and saw the pills and, after a _month_ of taking them, realized that they _were_ antidepressants," she interrupted insistently.

"Or more than likely…" Wilson suggested slowly, trying to think of a logical explanation. "He just didn't care what you were giving him and swallowed without thinking, because he's an addict, and that's what addicts do. When I was a med student, I once saw a patient come into the E.R., because she'd injected antifreeze into her body since she couldn't afford heroin."

She shook her head as the glass on the floor clinked against itself as she pushed some more into the dustpan. "This isn't like that. This wasn't House needing a fix. He _truly_ did not know or care about what I was giving him, and that's not like him."

But he remained unconvinced, putting his hands on his hips in disbelief. "As long as you were giving him something for his leg, why _would_ he care? As long as the Vicodin kept coming, as long as you were taking care of him in that way, why would he be concerned about anything else?"

As she reached down to grab the dustpan, Wilson caught the subtle movement of her shaking head. Dark locks swaying back and forth, it was impossible to see the disapproving look on her face, but he knew – he had no doubts – that there was one.

Standing back up, Cuddy said, "He gets angry over the smallest things. _Furious_," she added to stress the point.

"Well, it _is_ House."

The retort one too many, it was the final straw that had her whipping around to face him angrily. "He _cries_, Wilson. And before you even say it," she said with a glare. "I understand that he has tear ducts, which make it biologically possible for him to cry. But this isn't _normal_ for him."

She turned to head back into the kitchen, and he had no real choice but to follow her silently. As she dumped the glass into the trashcan, the shards tinkling lightly against one another, she told him, "You want to write off the drugs and the anger, fine. I _get_ that. That's something you can easily explain as something else. But not this. His emotional lability is directly related to his injuries."

And Wilson couldn't argue with that fact… at least not if House really were doing the things she was saying he did. "He's crying," he repeated incredulously.

She shrugged. "I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen it," she confessed.

But her comment made him wonder… "Is that what this is about? You telling me all these things about House, so that I'll feel bad for him and want to go see him? Or that I'll be so suspicious of the things you're saying are happening that I'll go talk to him?"

In return, Cuddy became visibly agitated. "_No_. I'm not trying to emotionally blackmail you. But you _did_ ask me what sort of mental impairment he had, and now, I am giving you the answer – an answer you don't like but the only one I have, nonetheless." Stuffing the broom and dustpan back in their proper spots, she told him, "If you choose to go see him, I would support that, but I can't force you to do it. Just like I can't force _him_ to get past his fear that you hate him and pick up the phone and call you."

Turning to face him once more, she looked almost grave, Wilson thought. "You don't want to talk to him, that's fine," she told him. Then her voice became hard, cold when she added, "But understand: you're not the only one suffering here."

Cuddy didn't give him a chance to respond, her feet moving quickly to the door. And this time, he had no intention of following her, her honest words too accurate for him to deny. Right before she shut the front door, she called back to him loudly, "Think about it."

And once again, Wilson was all alone, left with only her words to think about.

Which were echoing in Cuddy's own ears as well on her drive back to House's apartment.

She hadn't meant to be so… _cruel_ (and there was no other way to describe her words in her own mind). But then again, she knew that she had gone there for _his_ reassurance, for _his_ comfort, and that had been wrong-headed, because he wasn't in a place to do either. Especially not when both of those things rested on the premise that House wasn't intentionally evil, wasn't intentionally trying to hurt her or push her away.

So really, Cuddy thought she shouldn't have expected things to go well, because there truly hadn't been any chance of it going right – at least not now.

Guilt uncomfortably pooling in her stomach, she felt as though her insides were being twisted together in one long braid. And for the first time since this had all begun, she was completely convinced that she had no idea what she was doing. Up until now, she'd told herself that she could handle Wilson and House separately, that even though she was choosing the latter over the former, Wilson would forgive her, would understand.

But now she understood: there was no easy solution here, and no matter how hard she tried, how much she wanted it to happen, House and Wilson wouldn't necessarily be okay. They wouldn't necessarily trust her simply because she wanted them to, and they certainly wouldn't talk to one another because she begged them to.

Which made her feel… incredibly _useless_.

And it was almost ironic that she should feel that way now, because, unlike when she'd left the apartment, Cuddy now had a way to make House do what she wanted; she knew how to get him to talk to Wilson.

Wilson himself had been the one to suggest it – bribery – although he had unintentionally given her all the information she needed to manipulate House. When she'd first heard the oncologist mention that House wouldn't do anything unless it fell in line with his own self-interest, she had known she could get through to him. And a plan had begun to form in her head. All the things she had heard House say he wanted, all the things she knew he wanted – she had been willing to consider giving him any of those things if it meant the relationship between the two men could go back to normal.

Turning onto House's street, Cuddy recognized that it was a little odd how invested she was in a peace between them. But then, she could also recognize that her motives were hardly pure. As much as she did want them to be friends, part of her, the administrator in her, knew that it was important that they make up for the sake of the hospital. Because if they weren't friends, then one of them would quit, and that would mean patients would die, having not been treated by one of them.

And _maybe_ she could accept that if the only ramifications of them not being friends were professionally related. But the fact of the matter was this: in recent years, she had been House's second closest friend, and if Wilson were no longer number one, then that meant she moved up a spot. And that would mean that she'd have to be at House's beck and call whenever he needed her, which… she wasn't sure she wanted to be.

God, she thought in a moment of clarity, it sounded awful to think that.

No, it _was_ awful to think that.

But nevertheless, it was how she felt. As much as she could handle House, as much as she even _liked_ him, she wasn't sure she could deal with him full on. Because he required a _lot_ of attention, attention she wasn't sure she could give him.

At this point in her life, it wasn't a matter of whether she _wanted_ to do it, sadly enough. Ten years – hell, even _five_ years – ago, Cuddy would have balked at the idea of being that close to House. But he had somehow endeared himself to her. Not totally unlike the way a parasite invaded its host, House had managed to worm his way under her skin. And though, on any given day, he was the world's biggest ass, intent on destroying her career, she'd come to care for him.

A lot.

Because she'd seen the genius in him; she'd occasionally seen the protective side in him, and most importantly, Cuddy had seen the humanity in him. And though those things didn't often express themselves in the _nicest_ ways possible (okay, they _rarely_ did), it was enough for her. It was enough to make her believe that he was worth any attention she gave him.

Granted, she supposed Wilson had felt the same way at some point, had felt that way up until he lost Amber. But… for better or worse, Cuddy doubted that the same thing would happen to her.

Not because House was going to change by not expecting her to drop everything to help him. That wasn't it at all, she realized grimly. As much as he might want to change, she doubted at this point in his life that he could; he was too particular, too set in his ways to make such a huge adjustment. Which meant that if he didn't meddle in her personal life, it was because she, essentially, didn't have one.

She hadn't had a date in over a year. Sex was little more than a distant memory, and who the hell knew when her last actual relationship had been. And those facts alone made her situation and potential friendship with House completely different than the one Wilson had had or did have.

_Wilson_ with his three ex-wives and assorted mistresses _always_ had other people to think about and take care of. Never, not once in all of the time that she'd known him, had he been without some sort of prospective suitor.

Which, to be perfectly honest, worried her a little. His health aside, it made her nervous, if only because of the ramifications it could have had with his work. After all, she could only fiddle with the placement of the nursing staff, half of whom he'd probably slept with easy, so much before someone on the short staff quit. And, more worrisome, although she had _strongly_ discouraged him from sleeping with patients… she had heard things.

Of course, half of the rumors floating around the hospital were false, ninety percent of _those_ created by House out of spite. But true or false, those particular rumors had always struck a chord with her. Because they never seemed outlandish, never seemed completely out of the realm of possibilities, and that worried her on a professional level.

On a personal level… Cuddy couldn't deny that she was _horrifically _envious. Sure, some might say that Wilson slept with so many women, _married_ so many women, because he was just as lonely as she felt – or just as _afraid_ to be lonely, anyway.

But that argument fell short with her. Because even if their fears were the same, the way he coped with it sounded so much more enjoyable. _He _at least got to have sex, she thought bitterly. Alimony and the threat of catching all sorts of STDs aside, his way of dealing with loneliness allowed him the blissful experience of waking up next to someone each and every day, allowed him something that she hadn't had in a _very_ long time.

And it wasn't for a lack of trying on her part either. Short of paying for it, she'd done everything she could to find someone to date. But it hadn't worked, didn't work, and if she were being perfectly honest, would _never_ work. Because it was a universal truth, it seemed, that women had no problem dating smart, successful men like Wilson while men _never_ wanted those qualities in a woman.

Men took one look at her and wanted her for about five seconds until they found out what she did; her ass, apparently, was not enough to cancel out the words "Dean of Medicine."

So… really, Cuddy knew she would never be in the same position as Wilson; she would never have to choose between House and some boyfriend, because that scenario required someone to have more than a fleeting interest in her, and that was clearly less likely than being abducted by aliens.

Which meant, she supposed, that she was better suited for the role of House's best friend than Wilson had ever been. If she became his first priority, House would never have to worry about ruining her personal life; there was simply no personal life left to ruin.

Granted, there would still be… _issues_.

Work would make things difficult for them to be friends, she knew. The need to be able to tell him no was something that they were both keenly aware of, even if House resented her half the time because of it. And if she did become his best friend, it would be harder to maintain boundaries for him. Already, as the years progressed, she thought she was becoming softer, becoming more inherently trusting of him, which wasn't necessarily the greatest thing.

And for that reason and that reason alone, she wondered if she could ever be the "New Wilson." Because if there ever came a time where she was unnecessarily letting House risk his patient's life, if there were ever a moment where her friendship became a liability at work, House would push her away in the cruelest manner possible; he wasn't going to risk the way they worked together for someone he could trust in other ways.

So maybe, she decided as she pulled into a parking spot in front of House's apartment building, the key wasn't to replace Wilson. Perhaps the answer was to… spread out the need, for lack of a better phrase; bring Wilson back into House's life but keep herself firmly rooted in it as well, and give House _two_ people to handle all of his baggage, she thought.

Getting out of the car, Cuddy told herself with a sigh, it was a perfect plan.

If only he were willing to call Wilson.

But that promptly brought her back to what the oncologist had said, brought her back to the idea of bribery.

Of course, figuring out what House _wanted_ wasn't necessarily going to be the easiest task. For sure, she couldn't come right out and _ask_ him what he would need in order to call Wilson. Because he would _never_ give her an honest answer, and, guaranteed, the first thing he would say would be something along the lines of "Show me your tits." So he would be of no help, she knew.

But then, his mother had reminded her that his birthday was in two days (hence the call), and Cuddy was sure she could figure out something by then, so that she could lull him into doing what she wanted under the guise of celebrating his birthday.

Granted… House had never been one to throw a big party, to make a big deal out of the day, and she knew that. But she _also_ knew that, in so many ways, he was a child, a big _baby_ who believed gifts were an accurate measure of friendship and who wouldn't, more importantly, pass up this opportunity should she present it to him.

Unlocking the front door to the apartment, Cuddy couldn't help but feel slightly reassured with some sort of plan in place. It wasn't perfect, obviously, but it gave her something to work towards, something to _do_ other than make sure House didn't drown in the bathtub.

It hit her then, as she was pushing the door open, that perhaps leaving him alone all this time wasn't a smart idea. He _was_, after all, like a child, constantly in need of supervision or else he would wreak havoc.

But, much to her surprise, he currently wasn't doing much of anything, his sleeping form sprawled out on the couch.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly true. His ears still so sensitive, the sound of her unlocking and opening the door had clearly woken him, his bleary eyes glancing at her.

"Sorry," Cuddy told him in a low voice, quietly shutting the front door behind her. When he didn't reply, she made her way over to him, sitting down on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Were you asleep this whole time?"

House shook his head in response. Sleepily, he replied, "Ate the rabbit food you left too."

"Rabbits don't eat beef," she told him dryly, a little annoyed that, even after all this time, he wasn't appreciative of all the work she put into making sure he ate food _not_ completely laced with preservatives and artificial chemicals and sugars.

His eyelids fluttering shut, he murmured, "Mutant rabbits would."

A worried look crossed her face, despite the fact that she was rather amused by the comment. Leaning forward a little, Cuddy placed a cool hand on his warm forehead. He wasn't feverish, and for the most part, she'd doubted that he would be. But given his weakened condition, she was more than a little paranoid about him getting any sicker than he already was.

He looked fine, however. "I think you're tired," she mentioned knowingly.

He concurred, "Exhausted…"

And although she thought that it was bitchy to mention it, she couldn't help but chastise a little, "This is what happens when you stay awake all night. Your body can't handle –"

"I know." He interrupted her, but his words were calmly uttered, spoken in the kind of voice he only had when he was completely drained.

Sighing Cuddy stood up. Any plan to get him to call Wilson would have to wait for the time being, she knew, understanding that House was completely useless when he was this tired. And as much as she wished this little spat between the two men was over and done with, she couldn't plow her way through it; she couldn't force House to ignore what his own body was telling him by asking him to call Wilson _right now_.

To push House in that way was nothing short of cruel, and as his doctor, she knew that it would be criminal to put his well being second to making peace with a friend.

So she would wait; she had to.

Gently, she suggested, "Why don't you lay in bed if you're that tired?"

He lazily waved her off with a hand, his arm flopping back down onto the couch. A scoffing sound was muffled by the back of his throat. "Too far."

"You'll be more comfortable in bed."

But House simply repeated, "Too far."

She nodded her head in understanding, though his closed eyes couldn't see it. "Well, I'm going to have to do work around here, so –"

"Just shut up and do it then," he snapped, letting her know that he had had more than enough of this conversation.

So much for him using the time alone to calm down and realize that he was being an asshole. Which made her reply coldly, "Fine."

If he wanted to be lazy and stay on the couch, then really, it wasn't her fault if she woke him up when she started to do work. She'd warned him, she told herself, and if he wanted to still be an ass about it, that was his problem.

Irritation quickly waking inside of her, it would, she knew, take a few minutes for it to dissipate. And in that time, she would have to control herself, would have to resist the growing temptation to make tons of noise just to annoy him.

But just as she was about to walk away from him, House reached out and grabbed her hand. The sudden motion nearly scared the hell out of her; she was so unprepared for him to do that that she loudly gasped as his fingers closed around her wrist, which made him smirk for a split second.

In response she rolled her eyes but calmly asked, "Do you need something?"

He didn't answer her question. Actually, he didn't say anything _at all_, which was completely unlike House.

Instead, he simply opened his eyes slowly, apology clearly visible in the bright blue irises looking back at her. And Cuddy understood then, without any words being said, that he _was_ sorry for being an ass, for pushing her away, for… everything.

Giving him a curt nod that said she knew what he was trying to say, she told him softly, "Try and get some rest."

He was asleep before she even had a chance to spread the chenille blanket on the back of the couch over his body.

When he woke up what must have been hours later, House was surprised to notice that it was dark outside. Considering the smell of food in the air, he knew that Cuddy had been cooking, which meant that there had been noise that _hadn't_ woke him.

Rubbing his aching forehead with one hand, his burning thigh with the other, he thought it was odd that he'd been able to sleep through that – so odd that he couldn't help but wonder _why_ that was.

His first thought being that Cuddy must have drugged him, House was curious to know what that said about him as a person. Probably something he already knew, he figured, like that he was a skeptical bastard or an idiot incapable of trusting others.

Well, at least some things in his life were immovable, he thought grimly, pushing the afghan off of his sweaty body.

Moving off of the warm couch, he felt agitation wash over him hotly – not at Cuddy but at his own body heat for making his shirt and sweatpants stick to him uncomfortably. Beads of moisture collecting in every crevice of his body, even between his fingers and toes, House really did have to wonder what the hell had made him able to sleep for that long. Because the discomfort he was feeling now was so overwhelming, it really did seem nothing short of amazing that he would have been able to subconsciously ignore it for so many hours.

But all of a sudden, he was no longer interested in the why, the way his parched mouth felt like sandpaper taking immediate precedence over everything else.

He limped into the kitchen and headed straight towards the refrigerator. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cuddy standing over the stovetop with her gaze fixed on him. As he began to root around in the fridge, she told him, "Don't eat anything. I'm heating up the soup from the other day."

Well, that explained why he hadn't woken up, he realized; pulling out containers of soup and heating it in a pot wasn't exactly noisy.

And yet knowing that didn't make him feel any better. Pulling out the gallon jug of milk, House could only think that soup was the last thing he wanted; he was hot and sweaty and feeling way too much like a recalcitrant child to say anything but "I'm not eating that."

"Then I guess you're not eating, because I'm not making anything else," she replied simply.

He rolled his eyes, taking a swig out of the carton. "That threat would actually mean something if I were six years old and didn't know how to cook –"

"There isn't any peanut butter or canned soup in the apartment," she interrupted. "What, exactly, are you going to make for yourself?"

"Oh, you got me there," he said, his voice loud and mocking. "If only there was someone else I could call to make me food – food that I actually like, no less." He pretended to ponder for a second before saying, "Oh, I know. There_ are_ people I can call to do that."

Setting the milk on the counter, House turned to head towards the phone, which was in the living room. But he'd barely taken a step before Cuddy, not surprisingly, popped up in his way. He rolled his eyes and, noticing just how short she was in her bare feet, irritably ordered, "Move outta the way, midget."

Instead she folded her arms across her chest. "You're _not_ ordering take out."

"Gonna spank me if I do?"

"No." A smirk appearing on her face, she said, "I've spent _plenty_ of time with your ass in the last month or so. I'm not particularly interested in seeing it, much less _touching _it, on my own accord."

This time it was his turn to smirk. "You sound like one of my hookers when Wilson's credit card is declined."

She was clearly not amused by the comment. "Look, you and I both know that the best thing for you right now is to have a very specific diet for both your heart _and_ your brain. I know that it's frustrating and different and not exactly what you're used to. I get it," she told him in a voice so tight that it could only mean that she was trying to stop herself from yelling. "But that's the way it is for now, and I know that _you_ know that."

When he didn't respond to her words right away (there wasn't a sarcastic reply at his fingertips), she continued, "And since you ate the soup when I first made it, I can _only_ conclude that you are screwing with me. Which is annoying, but given how _pathological_ you are about it, I assume you don't know how to stop yourself. So… fine," she said, waving a hand angrily in the air. "But stop being such a self-destructive _ass_ about it."

"So I'm allowed to mess around with you but only in ways that you approve of," he pointed out snottily.

"That's what I'm saying, yes," she snarled, stalking back towards the pot on the stove.

The whole thing was rather curious, he thought at that moment. Boundaries as a general concept had never been something he concerned himself with – other than how to push beyond them, that was. And in this particular case, he wasn't sure what the ramifications of going past them would be.

So he decided to ask, "Then what happens if I order the food I want?"

He watched her stir the soup in silence. Her response not immediate, it took her a minute or so to tell him, "Then you order it. And you eat whatever it is that you get that's full of sugar and fat, and you deal with the way your body digests that." Giving him a pointed look, Cuddy continued, "_That_ will be punishment enough."

And he couldn't deny that she had a point. As much as it killed him to admit it, she was right; his body wouldn't react well to the food he was threatening to order.

Well, okay, so she was _wrong_ about his heart. That muscle in his body was strong; his cholesterol was good, and if the organ had the pesky tendency to stop, it had nothing to do with its inability to handle fatty foods and everything to do with being shot, taking too much Physostigmene, and having his thigh go through the painful process of dying within him.

Among other things.

His brows knitting together, he couldn't help but think then that when his health history put together in _that_ manner, maybe she wasn't _entirely_ wrong. Maybe he _should_ do more than the equivalent of crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.

But either way, that wasn't the issue here – at least not in his mind. Putting his heart aside for a moment, House understood that the part of him that would suffer the most was his head. Everything else might be fine, but his brain would not do well with processing carbohydrates like sugar, like the ones found in the food he suddenly found himself wanting, despite knowing it would be bad.

If he ate those things, it would be _really_ bad, the "good" side of himself stressed. Because in the digestive process, his body would turn those carbs into alcohol, and given that his damn head currently _always_ made him feel like he was ten shots in…

It would _not_ be a good combination.

He would become tired, confused, cranky (okay, _crankier_)… simply put, all around a complete disaster.

And of course part of him was tempted to become all of those things just to annoy Cuddy. Despite his non-apology apology earlier, despite actually feeling bad for basically treating her like crap the past month, he couldn't help but want to irritate her more; it was just something that came too natural for him, was something that he truly enjoyed doing even if he realized he shouldn't.

But at this point, he was _so_ tired of being tired, confused, and cranky that he didn't have it in him to go into the living room, order the food, and spend the night annoying the crap out of her. Which meant that he didn't have any other choice but to capitulate. "Fine," he said bitterly.

Looking over at him with a frown on her face, Cuddy replied, "Well, there's no need to pout about it."

"I'm not _pouting_." But even to his own tinnitus-afflicted ears, he could hear, past the ringing, the childishness of his response.

She rolled her eyes. "I stand corrected." And yet before he even had a chance to mutter something sarcastic, Cuddy continued, sounding confused, "I don't even understand why you're making a big deal about this. You ate the same soup a couple _days_ ago, and you _liked _it."

"Well, I'm _hot_," he replied in agitation, one of his hands wiping the sweat off the back of his neck.

The admittance visibly giving Cuddy pause, she looked him over seriously for a minute. Her lips were pursed together tightly, the ends turned downward into a deep frown. And honestly, he couldn't help but think that she looked like someone who had bit down on a lemon.

Finally though, she snapped, "So _that's_ what this is about? You're hot, and you don't want to eat something hot. But rather than actually _say_ it, you act like a jackass and force a confrontation with me. That sounds like the better option to you?"

He shrugged. When she put it like that, it did seem like the more ridiculous choice – albeit it was hardly a _rare_ option he took, especially when it came to his dealings with her.

"You know what? Never mind," she told him immediately, holding a hand up to stop him from offering any reply. "_You_ go change into something cooler. Splash your face with cold water. _I_ will make you something else. All right?"

House had nothing to say to that. Part of him wanted to throw her words back at her – that she'd thought fighting him over the food was a better option than just giving him what he wanted. But considering he _was_ getting what he wanted, he, instead, turned around and went to change. His silence the closest he was going to get to an apology, the quiet between them lasted through dinner.

And frankly, it would have lasted longer if not for Cuddy speaking the second she stood up to clear the dishes. Her words sounding completely rehearsed, she nearly announced, "Your mother reminded me that your birthday is in two days."

His mind, as sluggish as it was, began to piece the puzzle together in front of him. As he worked hard to figure out what she was doing, he distracted her with sarcasm. "Oh goodie, that'll be plenty of time for you to match your pasties and g-string with the color of the giant cake you're gonna pop out of."

Putting the dishes into the sink with a small clatter, Cuddy whirled around to look at him. Doubt and amusement mixing together bizarrely to contort the features on her face, she told him, "There's no giant cake and –"

"Yeah, you're probably right," he interrupted mournfully. "There's no _way_ there's a cake big enough for your ass to fit in."

"And here I was about to offer to get you a gift. But if you're going to make ass jokes, you can…"

She kept talking, but it was at that point that House lost complete interest in the words coming out of her mouth. Or rather, he was still _interested_ in what she'd said, but he didn't need to hear anything else she told him, because he instinctively understood: he had all the pieces of the puzzle in his hands.

She'd just said that she'd been considering getting him a gift. But considering, in all of the years he'd known her, she'd never gotten him a single thing for his birthday, there had to be a reason for the change of heart.

On the one hand, there was pity, he thought to himself, ignoring the way Cuddy was glaring at him. But there'd been plenty of times where he'd been pitiable; he _was_ a cripple, after all, and while that meant she would let him get away with a lot of things, her pity had never presented itself with presents.

So what had changed?

From his perspective, not much really, he thought. His head was all messed up, yeah, but he wasn't _that_ much more pathetic. The tears that seemed to come all too frequently didn't _help_, of course. But House could only believe that if his inexplicable emotions were worthy of gifts, Cuddy would have been pampering him already, instead of bitching and moaning about how he should call Wilson.

And it was then that everything became _so_ clear.

_Wilson_.

The pieces of the puzzle sliding together to create one crystal clear picture, there was no doubt in his mind what this was about. "It's interesting that you brought the date up for no apparent reason," he said suddenly, his lips contorting into a sneer. "Since I didn't mention it and since you didn't mention it when I _asked_ you what my mother talked to you about."

She rolled her eyes. "I just remembered, House."

"No, you didn't," he replied knowingly. "Because if you did just remember, you wouldn't say anything. And if you _did_ say something, it wouldn't be now; you'd wait two days until it _was_ my birthday. And if you _did_ say something now, you wouldn't say that you were thinking of getting me a gift. And if you _did_ say that, then it would only be, because you want me to be a good boy and do something for you."

House couldn't help but smirk at the way she nervously smiled. "And since there's only one thing you want me to do," he continued slowly, not giving her a chance to speak. "I _know_ the only reason you mentioned my birthday's coming up is so that you can bribe me into calling Wilson."

Her mouth hung open a little in reaction, although he couldn't tell if it was out of surprise or annoyance.

Truthfully, he sort of suspected the latter. Because Cuddy turned around then, quietly starting to scrub at the dishes with a yellow and green sponge. And he was content to give her the distraction, his eyes never leaving her despite keeping his mouth shut. Because there was no way she could deny his words, and knowing that, he didn't really care if it took her all night to respond; no matter how long it took, her answer would have to be the truth, and he wasn't opposed to waiting for it. Just knowing that he had stunned her into _finally_ shutting up, just knowing that he had been _right_ would make each second of her silence that much more enjoyable.

But surprisingly, he didn't have to wait at all. Whipping back around to face him, Cuddy immediately conceded, "Fine, you're right. That's my plan. What's it going to cost me?" Her voice was so matter of fact, so unapologetic, that House couldn't help but appreciate the honesty.

Nevertheless, he gave her a pointed look. "You think there's something you can give me that'll make me want to talk to Wilson?"

"I do. Yes." Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she walked back to the butcher block that they'd been eating over. "Despite everything you've been saying, I think you _do_ want to talk to him. At this point, even if it's just to prove to me that I'm wrong and he _does_ hate you, you're going to call him."

House, however, remained unconvinced. "I prove you wrong at least ten times a day," he said proudly. "I don't need to call Wilson to get my fix."

"Then like I said," she told him through gritted teeth, batting her eyelashes in the way she only ever did when she was both irritated with him and trying to humor him. "What's it going to cost me?"

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes cast upward as though an answer were going to fall from the sky and land in his lap. And then he replied, "Well, for starters, you're gonna have to okay the release of our sex tape."

"We don't have a sex tape," Cuddy said quickly, confused her eyes darting dangerously toward in him in a way that said, "We better _not_ have a sex tape."

"Oh. Then I guess for starters," he told her, amending his earlier statement. "We need to _make_ a sex tape."

She scowled. "Why don't you just ask me to set myself on fire instead?"

"Aw, come on. It's not that bad. You clearly enjoyed it the last time. You screamed so loudly, it was –"

"It wasn't _that_ good," she countered immediately. "If it had been, we probably would have done it again. Since we didn't…" She let him fill in the rest of the sentence.

"Then I guess we'll be filming our _mediocre_ sex."

Her eyes narrowing on him, there was a growl in the back of her throat when she told him, "We're _not_ having sex."

House shrugged. "Then you must not really care about –"

"Just because I'm not going to prostitute myself doesn't mean I don't care about saving your friendship with Wilson," she pointed out.

He was willing to concede that, saying, "That may be true… I guess." However, that said, he wasn't going to budge on his terms, as sex was the only thing he could be sure she would say no to at this point. "But that's all I want. So until you spread your legs, you won't be getting what you want."

Cuddy looked at him carefully for a moment, clearly waiting for him to say that he was joking. But when he said nothing of the sort, she simply shook her head. "I won't give you that. Think of something else."

Of course, for the next twenty-four hours or so, he did absolutely the opposite of that. For the most part not thinking about her proposition at all, he only mentioned it every now and then when he felt like making her both annoyed and uncomfortable (which meant she was _totally _thinking about it) by reminding her of the _awesome_ sex they could be having.

But just as he wouldn't budge neither did she, and frankly House was okay with that, because, truth be told, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if she were to say yes. He was only saying that he wanted it to annoy her, and if doing it actually became something she were willing to do…

Well, simply put, he was screwed.

Of all the things he had no intention of doing, Cuddy _had_ to be near the top off the list.

But as the hours passed, he couldn't help but fear that she was going to cave – like she usually did. And if she were to do that, then… he would have no idea how to proceed. Obviously, he wasn't going to have sex with her, he thought grimly. So he would have to tell her that he'd been sarcastic, and that would start a fight, blah, blah, blah… Honestly, the details were unimportant to him. He instinctively understood that that future was one he hoped to be able to avoid, the shrieking Cuddy would be definitely doing already giving him a headache.

And putting that aspect of the whole situation aside, House wondered if he were missing an opportunity here. Because part of him understood that if she agreed to sex, it was because she knew he didn't actually want to have it. Which meant that it wasn't a _true_ test of what she was willing to do, and he knew that all too well.

So then, in addition to the fear that she was going to cave, there was the niggling thought that he should be testing her. He should be seeing just how far she was willing to go, just how much she was willing to do (and buy) for _him_.

Granted, if Wilson were here, he would say that House was being ridiculous, trying to quantify friendship. But then Wilson _wasn't_ here; _he'd_ left, so his opinion didn't really matter, House told himself stubbornly, ignoring the sharp pang within him at the thought of his best friend.

And even if, in theory, Wilson were right, it didn't stop House from thinking about seeing what Cuddy might buy him. Childish though it undoubtedly was, the thought was one he couldn't ignore – not even as he tried to watch _Prescription Passion_.

Shuffling uncomfortably on the couch, he couldn't, try as he might, deny the tempting idea. The television was on and loud, obviously, but it might as well have been on mute or even off for all the attention he was paying to it. The storylines going in one ear and out the other, the cheesy sex scenes rolling right on past him without a single sarcastic remark being uttered – this was unlike every other time he watched the show.

And his distraction did not, apparently, go unnoticed by Cuddy. She was sitting Indian-style on the floor, her elbows and a bunch of folders on his coffee table. Doing work she clearly wasn't paying that much attention to what was going on with all the characters either. But she _did_ note _his_ lack of interest, because when he moved around on the couch some more, she asked, "Are you okay?"

His attention being torn away from his thoughts, he looked at her blankly. "What?"

"You're _squirming_," she told him. "And since you're not _actually_ a toddler in desperate need of a diaper change – no matter how much you insist on acting like one – I'm wondering if something is wrong."

He shot her a dark look but didn't respond to the insult. "I'm fine."

"Your leg?"

"Is fine," he finished, agitation beginning to grow within him.

"The tinnitus?"

"Well, there _does_ seem to be this annoying, high-pitched _shrill_ noise in my ear," he admitted. "Oh, no, wait. That's just _you_."

She sighed and turned back to her work. As she did so, Cuddy muttered, "Forgive me for being concerned."

"Forgive me for not giving a crap."

She ignored the remark, remaining silent thankfully. Or maybe not quite so thankfully, he considered, because within a couple minutes, as a result of her silence, he once more was thinking about the situation at hand.

Did he keep messing around with her and demanding sex?

Or did he actually take the opportunity to see what she was willing to do for him?

And if the latter continued to sound appealing, then he had to decide whether it was worth calling Wilson to see the results. Because it was one thing just to see what she would buy him, but House understood that it was completely different when _he_ had to give her something in return.

Certainly, it was different when the one and _only_ thing she wanted was for him to talk to Wilson, was the one thing House was unsure he could do. Or rather, it was the one thing he _would_ not do, he clarified to himself, since technically, he _could_ call Wilson. His fingers worked just fine; the issue was simply one of whether or not he wanted to _hear_ his best friend say that he hated him.

And there was no doubt in House's mind that that was _exactly_ what Wilson was going to say. Cuddy seemed to believe otherwise, seemed almost convinced that killing Amber was something they could all get past.

But House didn't believe that.

At all.

And _calling_ Wilson would only lead to a confirmation of what House already suspected – _knew _– to be true. Which meant that, rationally speaking, he wasn't really giving Cuddy much of anything by agreeing to her terms. If anything, part of him realized that she'd been right about one thing – that by calling Wilson, House would be proving her _wrong_ about this entire affair. And that did count for something.

But…

Regardless of the facts that House already knew how this would end and that Cuddy would be wrong, he had no desire to pick up the phone. For whatever reason, despite the prospect of being right, he didn't want to go down that road. As irrational as it was to be afraid of something he already knew was true…

He was terrified of hearing Wilson say that he hated him.

And knowing that, House couldn't help but feel _cowardly_. For all of his talk of wanting the truth, he wasn't all that interested in having it here.

The hypocrisy of it all made him uncomfortable, so much so that it was with effort that he stopped himself from squirming once more.

Trying to find some distance from his feelings, he tried to look at the situation scientifically.

No matter what he did, he told himself, Wilson was gone. Calling him, not calling him – it didn't really matter in the end, because the result would always be the same.

On the other hand, what would happen with Cuddy was yet to be determined, was dependent on what House decided to do. If he kept demanding sex, he wouldn't learn much of anything, he realized. That was as good as rejecting her offer all together.

But if he _did_ bite the bullet and call Wilson, he _would_ begin to see what Cuddy was capable of. And considering she was the closest thing he had to a best friend, he thought it was probably important to find that information out.

"Fine," House said with a sigh, what he needed to do unfortunately incredibly clear.

The utterance enough to make Cuddy look up once more, he wasn't surprised by her furrowed brow or her "What?"

He wished he didn't have to explain, wished he didn't have to give in to _her_, but he understood that he did. The words exceedingly bitter tasting to his tongue, it was with effort that he said, "I'll call Wilson."

She looked at him carefully, her eyes scanning his face for some sign that he was screwing around with her. "I'm not having sex with you," she told him once more.

Shrugging House replied, "Fine."

And that apparently confused her. "So… you're just going to pick up the phone after all this time and call him? You don't want –"

"Oh, I still want presents," he interrupted quickly. "I _am_ the birthday boy after all."

"And what does the _birthday boy_ want?" Her tone was dry with a touch of disbelief, making her sound as though she were still convinced that he was just messing with her; truth be told, he couldn't blame her.

"I don't know. Just get me something I'll like."

At first Cuddy didn't say anything. Her eyes crinkled slightly around the edges, she was clearly waiting for him to tell her that he was kidding. Again, he couldn't blame her for that, he thought. There'd been way too many times in the past where the punch line would come right about now, and he'd make her look like a fool. So it made sense that she would be slow to believe him.

But eventually she said, "Well, if you're serious –"

"I am."

"_Then_… pick the phone and –"

"I'm not calling him _now_," he said quickly.

That obviously didn't make her happy. "I'm not going to _buy_ you something until I know for sure that you're actually going to hold up your end of the bargain."

He smirked. "And you think I'm going to pick up the phone before I know for sure that you're actually going to hold up _your_ end of the bargain?"

Snottily she told him, "You don't have to worry about me; _I_ am a trustworthy person."

"And _I_ am a skeptical person, which means I'm not calling him until –"

One of her hands raising to rub her forehead, she stopped him by interrupting, "All right, fine. Tomorrow I will go out, and while I'm shopping you can call Wilson. _And_ your mother." He watched as her fingertips began to massage her temples. "Use your cell phone when you do it, so I can check your phone log. If the calls are there, you'll get… I don't know, whatever the hell it is that I buy you."

"Fine."

The conversation ending there, he spent the rest of the night trying to ignore what he had to do the next day. All of his focus on the antics on _Prescription Passion_, he desperately tried to immerse himself in the fictitious world he had hours of on his Tivo. And that worked well enough, he supposed.

But his birthday came quickly anyway, no amount of cheesy dialogue able to slow down time. And when, after breakfast, Cuddy bid him goodbye, he realized that there was no more avoiding the conversation he didn't really want to have.

Of course, he could put it off a _little_ longer, he told himself, picking up his cell phone and dialing his parents' phone number. But after ten minutes of small talk, of his mother telling him the most mundane things, House had had enough.

He didn't bother to tell her about his accident. She didn't believe him when he told her that he was fine (he'd never been able to lie to her), of course. But then, she hadn't pressed the matter, and for that, he was grateful, because he didn't know how to tell her about the bizarre turn of events. No doubt Cuddy wanted him to, but he had no intention of doing that.

If he did tell her what happened, his mother would want to help, would want to do something, but there was, frankly, nothing she could do, and it seemed stupid to make her worry if she didn't have to.

Besides, it wasn't like he could easily explain what had happened. How did one go about explaining that you killed your best friend's girlfriend in the most convoluted series of events?

The question went unanswered as they finished their conversation and hung up. And the query was completely forgotten when House realized that there was _nothing_ to stop him from calling Wilson now.

Glancing down at the cell phone in his hands, he sighed. The things he was willing to do in the name of experimentation, he lamented, because he _really_ didn't want to talk to Wilson.

Really _really_ didn't want to do it.

But there wasn't any avoiding it – at least not anymore, not when he'd made a deal with the Devil and her tight ass.

So gritting his teeth, he threw caution to the wind. After all, it wasn't like he didn't know what Wilson was going to say. His friend's words something House had already thought of, he didn't actually _need_ to hear them.

But as he dialed Cuddy's number (as that was where Wilson was hiding these days), House realized that in a matter of seconds he _was_ going to hear them.

The mechanical sounds of the dial tone making his ear thrum uncomfortably, he winced at the noise and wished begrudgingly that Wilson would just pick up the damn phone already. No doubt his friend was probably in Cuddy's home at that moment, standing over the caller ID with his hands on his hips. And House could easily picture Wilson refusing to answer because it was _his_ number coming up.

So really… it wasn't a surprise that the call went to Cuddy's voice mail. But then again, he hadn't considered what to do if Wilson _didn't_ answer the phone.

As Cuddy's pre-recorded message began to fill his ears, House wondered whether or not he should say something at the beep. Should he apologize? Ask Wilson to call him? Say straight up that he was only calling, because Nurse Ratched was _making_ him?

Frozen he didn't know what to say, although the last option didn't sound right, even to his own ears. Because even if he _had_ picked up the phone thanks to Cuddy's silly ideas, saying that out loud wouldn't help matters; saying _that_ out loud, actually, would only make Wilson hate him _more_. And it went without saying that House didn't want that.

But as the beep punctuated his silence loudly, making him hiss in pain, he could feel the words he had no idea he wanted to say bubbling inside of him. Saying nothing or pretending that he didn't really care about talking to him no longer options, he opened his mouth without thinking and murmured honestly, "I'm sorry," before hanging up the phone, convinced the apology had fallen on deaf ears.

However, unbeknownst to House, Wilson _had_ heard what the older man had said – and didn't like it, as evidenced by the phone call Cuddy immediately received after.

She was in the middle of shopping for House when her cell rang. Taking her mind off the fact that she had _no_ idea what to get him, she eagerly answered her phone without glancing at the caller ID. "This is Dr. Cuddy."

"Why is House calling me?"

Wilson's urgent, accusatory words filled her ears, giving her pause. Her immediate reaction was to consider how much better it would have been if she'd ignored the call and just kept shopping.

But since she _had_ answered her phone, Cuddy realized she had no choice but to talk to Wilson. Reluctantly she asked, "So he _did_ call you then?"

"I just said he did," he replied angrily.

Pursing her lips together, she counted to five, using the time to stop herself from saying something sarcastic and unhelpful. Finally she asked, "You actually _talked_ to him?"

An outsider, she realized, might think that such a question was stupid. But since she knew House, it wasn't completely insane to believe that he might have just called and hung up or called and said nothing until Wilson hung up.

Wilson explained in frustration, "He left a message. I didn't want to talk to him. I _don't_ want to talk to him."

Which made her both a little confused and annoyed. "Just the other day, though, you were saying he wasn't calling you and –"

"I want him to feel guilty," Wilson bit out. "I _don't_ want to spend_ my_ time of making _him_ feel better about himself." Not giving her a chance to respond, he warned her after a split second, "You tell him not to call me again. He calls again; he asks me to make this about _him. Again_. I'll quit my job and move to a place where he can't find me."

The tone of his voice left no doubts in her mind that he was serious. Something about his words made him sound _so _exhausted and fed up with the situation. And as depressing as that fact was, she couldn't blame him for feeling that way. Nor could she tell him to calm down and think about what he was saying, because he didn't give her the chance.

The click of the phone filling her ears before she even had the opportunity to open her mouth, she sighed and flipped her cell shut.

She realized that there was no point in calling him back now. Not only would he _not_ answer, but maybe more importantly, Cuddy knew that if things had gone that badly, then there was no way _House_ should be left alone.

And she had half a mind to turn around right now, leave the open shopping area that she was in, and return to the apartment. But at the moment, all she had to give House was two low-sugar cupcakes (one chocolate, one vanilla), and to go home now would mean dealing with his ire. Because like a little boy on Christmas, he would definitely be expecting more than some cake with blue sprinkles on top. And if that were all she gave him, he would throw a fit – a _huge_ fit, considering he hadn't had a chance to talk to Wilson.

Which meant she couldn't go back to the apartment now, no matter how much part of her thought she should. Her only option really was to hurry up and find something that would mean enough to House to take his mind off of what had probably upset him.

But looking around her, she had _no idea_ where to begin. She had the cupcakes, she reminded herself, but what else would he want?

For all of his distaste for the… entire _world_, she couldn't help but ask herself what the _hell_ he actually _liked_.

Sitting down on a nearby bench, Cuddy thought about it. Well… for starters, he liked porn and prostitutes – which didn't help her at all, because he wasn't healthy enough for either, and frankly, having sex with him _herself_ probably would be less embarrassing than that.

So, what was next on the potential list of things he would enjoy?

It took a moment for another possibility to pop in her head, took a second's pause before she remembered that he _did_ have that horrible habit of stealing lollipops from the clinic. But then again, she couldn't exactly give him a bag of candy and call it a day. His body wouldn't be able to handle the refined sugar, or rather, _she_ couldn't handle the way his body would react to the sugar. And even putting that issue aside, lollipops were hardly the type of gift she needed.

What else, she desperately thought, her eyes darting back and forth for something to prompt her.

He liked Reuben sandwiches – particularly Reubens that had been _stolen_ from the hospital cafeteria. And she decided right then and there that that was what she'd get for lunch (or dinner depending on how long this took). Well, they wouldn't be from the hospital, and they certainly wouldn't be stolen, but the sandwich would be something he'd enjoy, eliminating any potential fight they would have about food.

At least for tonight anyway; tomorrow would probably be a completely different story, she thought grimly.

But _that_ would be tomorrow and was therefore unimportant, because at the moment, she had bigger things to worry about.

Back on track, Cuddy immediately eliminated CDs (too noisy for his tinnitus), DVDS (everything he could possibly want, he would, no doubt already have), and books (his taste way too obscure and eclectic for her to find something he would reasonably enjoy). And aside from that, she couldn't think of anything else, because really… House didn't like much else.

Well, he liked insulting people – which he got a daily dose of by using _her_ as a punching bag. And he liked talking about her breasts, which he also got to do on a daily basis, and even if he _didn't_ get to do that, for _some_ odd reason, she didn't feel like listening to his crass sexual come ons, much less make it an actual gift.

But then… what else was there?

Unfortunately, Cuddy realized with a frown, there really _wasn't_ anything else. He was so damn particular that he wouldn't appreciate anything generic, and considering he hadn't given her any hints as to what to buy, she doubted he wanted something like that.

But damn it, he just did _not_ like that much, she thought angrily. He didn't have hobbies; he liked playing music, but since the accident, she hadn't seen him play the piano or guitar, probably because of his tinnitus. But there was nothing else he was particularly interested in.

There were no sports (obviously), no clubs, no pets, no kids – nothing _at all_ to guide her.

Closing her eyes, she mentally went room to room in his apartment, looking for some hidden interest that she could use. Having spent nearly all of her time in the last month _in_ said apartment, she could easily picture where everything was – down to, in some cases, the way the books were arranged on the bookshelf.

But moving from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom, she didn't learn anything new; there was no light shined on the matter, and honestly, she was beginning to doubt there was any light to _find_.

Cuddy didn't give up, however, her mind set on getting him something he would actually like and use.

So she continued her mental search, finally ending up in the kitchen. And it was there that she found something:

The stupid little cage he kept on one of the counters, despite her protestations that doing so was unsanitary. At the moment, she knew that nothing was living in there; she'd searched the thing after all, looking for drugs hidden in the bedding that still remained in there.

But she assumed that, at one point or another, an animal _had_ lived in there, although for the life of her, she couldn't remember what. Stacy had told her a couple of years ago, and Cuddy vaguely recalled the conversation.

Had it been a rat?

Well, whatever it was didn't matter, she supposed. The important thing was she now had an idea, something to go off of. And with a pet supply shop in this shopping area, she was convinced she could find something there for him.

Standing up once more, Cuddy began to head in the store's direction. With each step, the more she thought about it, the more she believed getting some sort of small creature for House was a good idea.

Of course, she would never deny that he could use some… lessons in being a nicer, more sympathetic person. But he wasn't the kind of individual to be cruel to animals either, and she was sure that having something small to keep him company would only do a world of good for him. Because he could be so good, so attentive towards things like that that it only made her think that he would benefit from having something else, something that couldn't and _wouldn't_ abandon him, to focus on.

But then the question became what kind of tiny animal?

The second she stepped into the pet store, she realized she would have tons of little creatures to choose from. And right off the bat, she crossed anything resembling an amphibian off of her imaginary list. Her own distaste for them aside, things with scales at the pesky tendency of coming with salmonella and all sorts of nasty things that House didn't need to be exposed to.

And a bird was out too, she immediately realized. Because even though it was undoubtedly cleaner than some sort of nasty frog, birds made high-pitched noises.

And, to be perfectly honest, birds just weren't cute enough, in her mind, anyway, to cancel out the _fit_ House would throw over _that. _

So that pretty much left something small and furry, something like he'd once had… whatever the hell that was.

Walking directly towards the back of the store where little mammals were, Cuddy paid no attention to the brightly colored fish swimming along her left or the chirping finches that were on the far right. Those animals were not only _not_ what she wanted, but in the back of her mind was the thought that House's phone call hadn't gone the way she'd hoped it would go. And even if she wouldn't have minded looking at all of the creatures within the pet store under normal circumstances, she knew she had to hurry up and get home.

Unfortunately, as she came to stand in front of the rows upon rows of rodents and furry creatures, she realized that it wouldn't be quite that simple; there were too many choices, the days of her youth, where "small mammals" constituted an aquarium of teddy bear hamsters, long gone. Rabbits and rats, mice and chinchillas, gerbils, hamsters, and even hedge hogs – dozens of tiny little things scurried around the clear cages, making her decision that much harder.

Running her tongue along her teeth, Cuddy went from cage to cage to see which type of animal she thought would be best. Obviously hedgehogs were out; anything that House could use as a weapon was out on principle.

Period.

Although he would probably get a kick out of stabbing her with a _hedge hog_, the mental picture alone enough to make him, laugh, _she_ was note quite so amused at _that_ prospect.

So that was a definite no. As were the gerbils, because knowing House, he would spend _at least_ the next two days making jokes that she had no interest in hearing.

Of course, House didn't exactly strike her as a gerbil fan – or a hamster fan, for that matter. They were just… too small, too _delicate_ and _cute_ for his taste.

But as she moved along the rows of animals, Cuddy began to see that she might be forced to choose one of those. The mice were clearly sick, a thin white one slumped over (probably dead) the little wheel in the cage. Most of the other mice didn't seem to notice, much less care, their brown, white, and black paws scurrying over their fallen brethren as though nothing were wrong.

And the few who _did_ pay any attention to what was going on were _chewing_ on the poor dead mouse's ears. Watching them nibble away as though cannibalism were perfectly normal, Cuddy immediately turned her back to them.

Sure, House would enjoy knowing that she'd gotten him a _mutant_ animal that liked to eat other mice that probably came from the same litter as it. But, truthfully, she wasn't sure she could stand to be in an apartment with one of those mice, the fear that she would wake up with it nibbling on her toes too powerful to ignore. And besides, even if she weren't thinking of herself, something had _killed_ the dead mouse to begin with, and she had no intention of bringing whatever it was that it had had into the apartment.

So moving along, she told herself with a frown… up next were the rats, who looked surprisingly sprightly. They were running around but not in the frantic, dizzying way the mice had been. And unlike street rats, these were _not_ a dull shade of brown; nor were they the same white that the hospital's lab rats always were. Instead, they were mainly brown _and_ white combined, except for a few exceptions – like the two tan ones hanging around the back of the cage.

Their light brown fur the color of sand, they were quieter than the rest of the rats. But they were still active and looked healthy, which was pretty much her criteria for choosing a pet.

And the more she looked at them, the more she seemed to recall that the animal House had had was a rat. Her hand rubbing aimlessly against her chin, she _thought_ she remembered Stacy telling her about a feral rat that House had taken from her home.

The cage in the apartment was certainly big enough for a rat, although too small for some sort of chinchilla (which Cuddy doubted he would have bought anyway).

A smile appearing on her face, she knew, in that moment, that she was going to get House a new pet rat. She had her eye on the chubby (but hopefully not pregnant), tan rat in the back. It was, in her mind anyway, the cutest rat in the cage, and, although the tag on the plastic said that rats did best in pairs, this particular animal seemed completely uninterested in its roommates. Which worked well, considering that there would, knowing House, be times when he was uninterested in giving or unable to give the rat tons of attention.

And that fact firmly planted in her mind, she knew she was making the right choice.

Spinning around on her heels, Cuddy began to look around for a worker to come help her. There was a lock on the cage – not that she really wanted to reach into a tank full of rodents and grab the one she wanted, of course.

But the only person she saw who looked like an employee was currently being bombarded by a nervous parent and her screaming, whining child. In fact, glancing at the mother-daughter pair now, Cuddy was surprised that she hadn't even noticed how loud the girl was until this very moment.

Then again… Cuddy _was_ used to House, who was louder, whinier, and more childish than any actual child she'd ever met. So perhaps it really wasn't any surprise that she hadn't paid attention to the brat who was crying loudly for the black-and-white rabbit, the _only_ rabbit for sale apparently, that she so desperately needed to have.

Watching the scene in front of her take place, Cuddy could tell she wasn't the only one now paying attention to the mother, daughter, and the timid employee who seemed afraid of saying the word, no. The boy wearing the company uniform couldn't have been more than twenty, his cheeks still full with baby fat and eyes wide with innocence. And he was _clearly_ no match for the ten year old throwing a fit, because, although he looked like he wanted to say, "No, you can't have this rabbit," he wasn't _actually_ saying that. His voice squeaky, he simply kept hedging.

Over and over he repeated, sounding unsure of himself, "I'm not sure that a rabbit is a good choice…"

Which made the little girl respond, "But I _want_ it!"

And _that_ made the mother continue to press, "Well, she wants it, so that's what we're going to buy."

Waiting impatiently for a good ten minutes, Cuddy was quickly becoming fed up with the situation. Since there were no other sales people around, she had to wait for this _boy_ to effectively deal with this family. But the longer he took, the greater the need to get back to House seemed. Because the longer she waited, the more her mind wandered to him.

The image of him being both angry and depressed after his attempt to talk to Wilson filled her head. Overwhelming worry gripping at her consciousness, Cuddy suddenly felt as though standing here, waiting for this teenager to finally cave in and give the little girl what she wanted, was pointless.

Yes, it had been part of a deal to get House a present, but wasn't the more important thing keeping him safe – if not content with new things to play with, she asked herself. Wasn't watching this fight unfold a _bad_ decision on her part, especially when she could be in her car right now driving back to him?

The questions went unanswered, because it was at that moment, when she thought the word, safe, that she realized that it would soon be time for House to take his medication.

And God help her if she returned late for _that_.

Realizing that things wouldn't end well if she didn't leave soon, Cuddy rolled her eyes and stalked towards the employee. Just as the mother was about to repeat once more that the rabbit had to be hers, Cuddy interrupted, "I hate to interrupt, but I think I can settle this argument." Turning to the mother, she placed a hand on the stranger's forearm. "I know you had hoped to take that rabbit home for your daughter, but the thing is I _already_ called ahead to buy the rabbit. So… I'm sorry, but she's mine."

The mother responded with a slightly open mouth, a sound of disgust and annoyance caught in the back of her throat (which earned her a pointed glare) while the store employee looked at her kindly. And without any exaggeration, he _literally_ sighed with relief, reaffirming to Cuddy that she had made the right decision by intruding.

But only the little girl immediately spoke up. "You were looking at the _rats_," she pointed out snottily. "You don't want the bunny."

Gritting her teeth, Cuddy had no time for this, and she certainly had no desire to get into a fight with a child. "I was looking at the rats in the hopes that _he_," she said with a sharp glance to the employee, "would do this job. Unfortunately, he's too afraid to tell you no, so I'm doing it. Now if you could pack up my rabbit, that would be really nice," she told the teenage boy.

Although she hadn't exactly thought this plan through all the way, if she had, Cuddy understood that it was at this point that the family was supposed to turn away and leave, insulting her as they went.

But that was _not_ what happened.

Instead of skulking away, they stood there and watched her and the employee. Which meant that Cuddy could do nothing but helplessly stand there and take the rabbit (in a cardboard carrier, of course) and all of the supplies necessary to raise a rabbit. And within a matter of minutes, instead of the rat she _wanted_, she was now purchasing the black and white bunny.

For _House_.

As she headed back to the car, a bag filled with food, a real cage, and other assorted items in one hand, the cardboard cage in the other, she couldn't help but wonder just how much he would _hate_ the gift. And there was no doubt in her mind that he _would_ hate it. She hoped for the best, but clearly rabbits with their cute, twitching noses and _House_ didn't exactly go well together.

Although, she thought optimistically, he _would_ appreciate the fact that she'd essentially stolen the animal from a little girl. That alone would be the reason he kept the bunny – just so nobody else could have it.

And Cuddy supposed that that was fine with her. Having held the rabbit in her hands while the teenager had retrieved a cardboard cage, she could attest to creature's timidity; it had squirmed a little in her hands as she'd taken in its interesting appearance. Black ears and eyes, a few black spots along its back, and something that resembled a tiny black mustache above its mouth – it was the cutest little rabbit she'd ever seen but not the friendliest. It hadn't tried to bite her thankfully, but the poor girl (or boy, although she was going to assume it was a girl) had nearly wriggled right out of Cuddy's grip.

As she loaded the car with the new supplies and rabbit, Cuddy vaguely realized that it would be a problem if the bunny were to get loose in the apartment.

Well, not now, she told herself; if the rabbit hopped out of House's arms, _she_ would be there to hunt it down. And frankly, considering their living situation didn't look like it would be changing anytime soon, she knew it wouldn't be an issue.

At the moment anyway.

But then, maybe it would never be a problem. She'd bought some sort of pen to put the rabbit in for exercise. And in any case, even after she moved out, she _knew_ that _any_ problem with the animal would have House calling her to fix it. Of that she had absolutely _no_ doubts.

Sighing for maybe the fiftieth time that day, Cuddy drove out of the parking lot. As she glanced down to the car clock, she realized that she probably had enough time to stop to get the sandwiches – although she would have to hurry in order to get back before House needed his medication.

Her foot instinctively pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car lurching forward unceremoniously. The sudden movement was one she'd anticipated, was one the _rabbit_ had not. Obviously, because as Cuddy drove along the high way, she could hear, above the soft, hushed sounds of the wind, the little pitter-patter of the rabbit hopping inside the cardboard cage.

Quickly Cuddy darted her eyes to the floor of the front, passenger-side seat, where she'd placed the animal. The carton was still holding up, she thought thankfully, her eyes rolling at her own nervousness over the pet potentially escaping.

But at the same time, part of her tried to justify, in her head, her concern. The unbidden image of what would happen if the animal had gotten loose came to her at that moment. The idea of her trying to drive a car with a rabbit hopping about was ridiculous at best, horrifying at worst, and although House would, no doubt, enjoy the idea of her crashing her car and dying because of the creature, she didn't find it quite so amusing.

Her worry was for naught, however, the rabbit staying exactly where it was for the remainder of her trip. Which, for a brief second, made her feel nothing but relief.

Until she was outside of the apartment and remembering just how bad things could be.

Carefully setting down the cardboard box, Cuddy tentatively unlocked and opened the front door.

She could see House immediately, even from the hallway. He was sitting on the couch in the living room. The TV was off; there was no music playing, no book in his hands. He was just sitting there – he didn't even look up at the sound of the noise she made.

So she announced her presence with an "I'm back."

But he didn't reply or look her way, much to her dismay.

Picking the cage up once more, she shuffled her way into the apartment. "Did you call your mother?"

His response was a cold "Yes."

"Good," she told him with a nod of her head, moving to stand in front of him. Placing the food and pet supplies on the coffee table in front of her, she gently, strategically placed the rabbit on the floor so he wouldn't immediately see it. "Did you call Wilson?"

Of course, Cuddy already knew the answer to that. But if she didn't ask that question, then House would know that there was a reason for that. And he would very quickly deduce that Wilson had called her, and if their friend had done _that_, then House would know that Wilson was furious.

And she didn't want him to know that, because it would make House never want to take her advice ever again. So the only choice she had was to pretend not to know what had happened.

Again, he gave her a cold answer. "Yes."

She responded by giving him an imploring look, but he didn't say any more. Hoping to get more out of him than a one-word answer, she pressed further. "And how did that go?"

"How do you _think _it went?" His voice was a low growl, the words not entirely audible but the anger behind it crystal clear.

"Well… I'm guessing by the tone of your voice that it didn't go well," she said diplomatically.

House sneered at her. "Of course it didn't go well. I know, in your world, Wilson and I would have made up before dancing on a cloud of rainbows and unicorn dreams," he snapped. "But, apparently, in the _real_ world, when you kill someone's girlfriend, they tend not to want to speak to you. Who knew?"

"I'm sorry," she told him honestly. "I… _truly_ thought that he would talk to you. When I spoke to him last, I really thought that he wanted you to –"

"You were wrong," he interrupted.

She frowned deeply. "I know."

He glared at her accusingly. There was no kindness looking back at her, his bright blue irises glassy and hardened. "You _wasted_ my time."

Despite the fact that she didn't want to feel this way, Cuddy couldn't stop the guilt from tugging at her senses. Her voice suddenly sounding strangled when she spoke, she began to say, "I wasn't…"

But he interrupted, incorrectly completing the sentence, "Thinking? Of course not," he said loudly. "_Why_ would you do that? Sit on your ass all day… looking for ways to screw with me – that's what you _do_," he accused angrily, his voice loud enough to aggravate his tinnitus, she thought. "I _said_ calling Wilson would be a bad idea. But why listen to me, _right_? I mean, _sure_, I'm the one with the _brains_, even if they are all messed up, but lets not listen to me. Lets just do whatever the _hell_ you want."

House was shouting at her at this point, and though she had long been victim to his temper (and had _known_ that she was probably coming back to _this_), it still hurt to hear what he was saying. Calmly, Cuddy told him, "That's not true. You know that's not –"

"Just shut up," he snapped back, not giving her a chance to say anything else. "I don't…" His voice trailed off, emotion that she thought was sadness getting caught loudly in the back of his throat as he exhaled. Swallowing hard, House told her, defeat coloring every word, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Cuddy nodded her head in understanding. Truth be told, she couldn't help but feel a little relieved at the fact that he didn't want to continue to discuss this, because part of her feared that talking about this anymore would only lead to more fighting. And frankly, despite easily fitting into the "masochist" mold, she did _not_ want to keep this conversation going, did _not_ want to hear anymore about how she'd screwed everything up. "All right," she agreed in earnest.

Looking him over for a second, she waited for him to say something in response. But when he didn't, she told him, "I think it's time for your medication."

"_Wonderful_."

"Stay here," she instructed gently. "I'll go get you a glass of water and bring everything to you."

When he didn't say anything, she took that as his way of consenting and disappeared into the kitchen. As she retrieved a cup from one of the glass cabinets, she hoped that his mood would improve by the time she got back. Rationally, of course, she wasn't _expecting_ that; it wasn't reasonable to expect such a dramatic shift, but she did hope for one nonetheless, practically praying that whatever he was feeling would recede enough so that he could at least pretend to enjoy the rest of his birthday.

Returning to him with drugs and drink in hand, she said in a hushed voice, "Here you go." He took the proffered items but didn't reply. Which made her ask him as he started to swallow the pills, "Do you want to see what I got you?"

Shrugging he answered, "I guess." And although he was basically saying yes, although he'd consented to this entire plan, there was nothing in his voice that suggested that he cared one way or the other.

Feeling a headache beginning to develop, Cuddy absent-mindedly rubbed her forehead. "All right, well, I stopped by the deli on the corner and got Reubens for –"

"Gimme," he interrupted insistently, his free hand making grabbing motions.

"Okay…" Well, she told herself, as she reached down for the bag on the coffee table that had the sandwiches, at least, she'd gotten that much right.

But the thought gave her little comfort; the second she held the sandwich out for House to take, he warned her, "There better not be any pickles on –"

"There aren't," she tried to tell him, although the look on his face said he didn't believe her. "I told them that I didn't want –"

"_Yeah_. I'm sure that worked. People _always_ do what you say," he pointed out sardonically.

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Just take a bite, all right? And if there's a problem with it, I'll pick off the pickles myself," she offered.

House scoffed at the suggestion. "Taking them off won't work. Everything will still taste like pickles. Which is why you have to make sure they don't put them –"

Repeating herself, Cuddy ordered him through gritted teeth, "Just take a bite. _Try_ it before deciding I've screwed up."

Looking at her for a second, House seemed hesitant to do what she wanted. God forbid he hear an order and _behave_ himself. But eventually, his hunger apparently won out, his hands eagerly tearing the parchment paper away from the warm sandwich.

His teeth tore away a bite nearly too big for his mouth, forcing him to chew as loudly and obnoxiously as he was in every other aspect of his life. As he did so, Cuddy watched him like a hawk, her eyes narrowing on him expectantly.

And House hated to admit it, but, damn it, she _did_ get the fine art of ordering a Reuben right. Swallowing greedily, he didn't want to actually say the words out loud – you did a good job – but he wasn't going to risk telling her the sandwich sucked, leading to her taking it away from him. So he settled for a more neutral "It'll suffice."

But she wasn't going to let him _only_ say that. "If you don't want it, House –"

"I'll eat it," he interrupted, trying to infuse his voice with irritation, as though the idea of eating the sandwich were being forced upon him. And going a step further, he made sure she wouldn't feel satisfied at the thought of getting something right; because she'd so _royally_ screwed up by demanding that he call Wilson, House didn't think she had _any_ right to pat herself on the back. "I'm assuming there's more to this than a Reuben," he told her snottily. "Or maybe I should say… there _better_ be."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Of course there is." She began to rummage through the plastic bags she'd placed on his coffee table. The noise of her rustling echoed inside of his ears, coaxing the tinnitus back to its full force.

"Please, feel free to take your time and make as much noise as you can."

She didn't respond to the jab, which he kind of expected. Because he might have been in a bad mood, and yes, he _might_ have been taking it out on her, but if he knew one thing for certain, it was that they _both_ could agree that this was entirely _her_ fault. So thank whatever the hell God who didn't exist for giving her _some_ brains _not_ to fight back at the moment; she wouldn't have won.

Of, course, if she'd really had any brains at all, she would have been smart enough to know to back off of the call-Wilson thing. And then none of this would have happened, he thought angrily. But she hadn't had the smarts to do that, hadn't backed off of him, and now he was furious with her and himself for picking up the phone, for putting himself in a position to be rejected.

The bitter thought making his stomach clench futilely, it was one that was abruptly shoved to the side when Cuddy told him, "I got cupcakes for –"

He grabbed the plastic container with the brown and white treats inside, nevertheless interrupting, "Weren't you the one saying _yesterday_ that sugar was –"

"Yes," she confessed, speaking over him, forcing him to shut up. "But it _is_ your birthday, and the cakes are low in sugar, _and_, considering I didn't want to hear your complain about _food_ anymore, I went ahead and got them."

It took him a second to think of something to say, a small smile appearing on her lips the longer he remained silent. "Fine," he replied hostilely. "But I'm eating both of them."

She smirked. "Good, because I got both of them for you."

Outwardly, he didn't say anything, reveal anything; he simply took another bite of his sandwich. But _inwardly_, House had to fight the desire to strangle her. Because, although part of him really didn't want to hurt her, another _hated it_ when she outmaneuvered, outthought him – like she had done here. Because the fact of the matter was this: he was comfortable being the smart one; he'd _said_ he was the one with the brains, and ninety-nine per cent of the time, that was true.

But when _she_ did something truly remarkable, when she outsmarted him… it bothered him, more than anything else she was capable of. In those times, it made him feel… like he'd missed something, like he'd screwed up somehow. And given that part of him was absolutely sure that his genius was gone, that that part of his mind had died right along with Amber, he didn't appreciate Cuddy giving him any more evidence he didn't need.

"Is that it?" he asked, sounding not entirely unlike one of those future hookers MTV regularly featured on _My Super Sweet 16._

Placing a hand on one of her hips in disapproval, she told him, "_No_, that's not _it_. But you could try being a _little_ grateful."

House pretended to think it over. "And where would the fun in that be?"

She waited for a second to say or do anything, her way, he supposed, of hoping that he would get the initiative to say thank you. Which almost made him laugh out loud; she was acting like she was _new_ at this.

But finally she rolled her eyes and moved on.

Sort of.

Instead of quickly moving along, Cuddy seemed almost hesitant then. "All right, well… I didn't know what to get you," she confessed quietly. "You wouldn't give me any hints, and I didn't… know what to do," she repeated, emphasizing the words with her stressed tone of voice.

He gave her a pointed look. "So what you're telling me is that you, what, got me a series of portraits of Taub… naked?"

Her nose automatically scrunched up in disgust.

Belatedly, she replied, "No. Definitely _no_." Picking up the cardboard box on the floor, she gently placed it on his lap. And it was then that he realized just how much the non-conversation with Wilson had been – _was_ – bothering him. Because he hadn't even noticed that there _was_ a box on the floor.

Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have been so odd, except that this particular box _clearly_ had something alive in it. The cardboard wobbling slightly, House was suddenly very unsure of what she'd gotten him.

His hands bracing the box so that it wouldn't fall onto the ground, he told her seriously, "Please tell me this is your favorite vibrator and not an actual living creature."

She bristled at his words, which could only mean that there really _was _something alive in his hands. Again, she told him, "I didn't know what to get you. And… this wasn't my first choice," she warned. Her voice becoming high-pitched, the veins and sinew in her neck beginning to bulge, she was clearly becoming flustered. "But … there was this woman and her _unbelievably_ bratty daughter and –"

"And I don't care," he told her simply.

Which was true enough; he didn't care what had possessed her to buy whatever it was that was in this cardboard box. If he liked it, he liked it. If he didn't, he didn't, and _that_, he told himself, was all that concerned him.

Of course, given the story she was _trying_ to tell him, House couldn't help but believe that he would absolutely _hate_ what was in the box. Because he understood that you didn't preface a gift like that if you _knew_ it was going to be something the person loved; you only did that if you were sure that the receiver would hate it.

And that – the idea that Cuddy would have manipulated him into calling Wilson and then gotten him a crappy present just to screw him over – _that_ made him furious. So much so that it didn't even matter what was in the box; he was going to hate it.

On principle, he was going to hate it, even if she'd randomly picked something he liked.

His hands shaking with anger as he pulled apart the slats that kept the box shut, he was surprised by what he saw – surprised and repulsed in equally strong measures.

A rabbit.

A goddamn _rabbit_.

He had called Wilson, and this was what she gave him. _He_ had set aside his own judgment, had set himself up to hear the words, "I hate you," only to learn that Wilson didn't care enough to even say that. _House_ had been the one to risk everything, and he'd been the one to lose a best friend.

And _this _was what she gave him.

Part of him, in that moment, realized that there was little she could have given him that would have countered the loss of Wilson. But at least if she'd gotten him something _good_, there'd be the knowledge that she understood him, that she could potentially get him the way Wilson once had.

That was what his plan had been about – to see just how able she was at that job. But instead of being anywhere _near_ what he needed, she'd done this, making him feel as though he'd been used this entire time. And at that moment, as she looked at him expectantly, he hated her.

Grabbing the black and white rabbit in a manner to harsh to be considered kind, he yanked it out of the box. The dumb animal was in no harm, but it made the _fluffy,_ little bunny equivalent of a scream. Bitterly, he asked, "Is this _dinner_?"

Cuddy's eyes widened in surprise. "N-no," she forced out in shock. "It's a –"

"A pet?" He pretended to sound surprised at the idea before shaking his head. "But I'm not exactly the kind of person who would own a rabbit. A poodle dyed hot pink, sure – I'd _love_ one of those but a rabbit? Not so much." Cocking his head to the side, he told her, "On the other hand, I'd _much_ rather eat a rabbit than a poodle, so –"

"You can't _eat it_," she insisted worriedly.

And _that_, the fact that she seemed to think he _would_ kill the rabbit and eat it, piqued his curiosity. Just how little, he wondered, did she think of him?

As the rabbit wriggled around in his grasp, he supposed that he'd known she'd trusted him so little. She couldn't do her job if she inherently thought he were capable of always doing the right thing.

But in any case, her reaction… intrigued him, egged him on. In a very weird way, he wondered just how far he could push her before she would stop him. He wondered just where she would draw the line and how long it would take to get there.

And it was then that something inside of him seized hold. His head pounding, he couldn't pull himself back from the thought; he kept going.

"Don't be squeamish," House told her. Changing his hold onto the rabbit so that he held it by the neck, he said, "It'd be easy. Just snap the –"

"_No_!" Cuddy nearly shrieked, her mouth open in shock. "You… you can't –"

He eyed her curiously. "Why? It won't feel a thing."

Her voice was tight with emotion. "I didn't buy the rabbit so that you could… _kill_ it." Her own gaze seemed intent on figuring out how fast she would have to move to grab the animal from him without him fighting back.

"You think I'm going to do it? You think I'm capable of that?" House squeezed the rabbit tighter. Looking down at it, he pretended to consider the matter. "I guess it would be pretty easy, wouldn't it?"

She shook her head violently. "House, _stop_ it."

He smirked. "You _do_ think I'm going to do it."

"I think you're… upset over Wilson and not thinking clearly because of the injury to your temporal lobe," she told him slowly, clearly struggling to find words that wouldn't piss him off anymore.

"Oh, I see," House replied bitterly. "So this has nothing to do with _you_ manipulating me into doing what you wanted. This is just me being crazy."

Her voice was grave, and tears that had seemingly come from nowhere made her eyes look glassy in the light. "You are holding a small animal by its neck and talking about killing it. If you're mad at me…" She shot him an imploring look. "Then I'm sorry. I _really_ believed that calling Wilson was the right thing to do."

House opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a hand stopping him. "I was wrong. I screwed up – I'll admit that. But what you're doing, what you are _about_ to do… it's not rational. It's not reasonable. And if you were to look at what you're doing, you would know that this is crazy."

He didn't listen to her. "_I'm_ not crazy."

"No," she told him in agreement. "You're not. But _this_ is. Just _look_ at what you're doing."

At that moment, he wasn't sure what made him look down, but later on he would be glad that he did. His gaze moving downward, he finally saw exactly what it was that she was seeing.

His hand was practically strangling the flailing animal, its eyes straining under the pressure. Its teeth were bared, its tiny bite trying desperately to sink into a bit of his skin to scare him off.

His eyes darting back to Cuddy, he could see the fear in every cell of her body; it was practically palpable, the knowledge that she _truly_ believed he would kill this rabbit without thinking finally hitting him.

And looking down again at what he was doing, House couldn't deny it. If he didn't let go, if he didn't back off, if he didn't get control, he _would_ strangle the small animal in his hands. Which would mean that he really was every bit the _monster_ he feared Wilson saw him as.

It would mean that he had no reason to demand that Wilson, Cuddy, or anyone else be in his life.

His fingers immediately uncurled themselves at the thought, the rabbit plopping unceremoniously onto his lap before quickly hopping away in fear, its mainly white body moving out of sight at a steady pace. And that made Cuddy sigh in relief, though House himself could not feel anything other than disgust at his own behavior.

The rabbit hadn't been a good gift, but only because it now made him realize just how… _horrible_ he actually was. All this time, he'd said that Wilson should hate him, but only part of him had truly believed that. For the most part, it had just been words, had just been something to say if not actually feel.

But now, he knew: he didn't possess enough redeeming qualities to make a friendship with him worth it. With all crap he pulled, there probably weren't enough redeeming qualities in the world to excuse his behavior. And glancing down at his hands (he didn't have the courage to look at Cuddy's face anymore), House also knew – he didn't have to kill the rabbit to be a monster.

He already was one.

_End (10/15)_


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Notes: Thank you so much to No need to whisper., yoleah, DoctorLisaCuddy, passionfornight, i luv ewansmile, and lhoma320 for the awesome reviews. I apologize that it's taken so long for me to update, but things have gotten a little crazy for me as of late. But I hope to update more frequently from here on out. Thank you for sticking with me all this time.

Also thank you to my beta for all of her help. I really appreciate it.

_Disclaimer: The show is not mine._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Eleven: Revelation  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Domino effect – the consequence of one event setting off a chain of similar events." – "Domino Effect" entry from Princeton's WordNet Database_

Time seemed to stand still – stop _completely_ – as House walked away from her, his footsteps loud on the floor as he stalked towards the bedroom. His form stiff and defensive, Cuddy didn't dare move, speak, or _breathe_ as he left the room. As much as part of her wanted to console him, as much as part of her wanted to _yell_ at him, she was too _afraid_ to do anything other than stand there.

Fear and surprise, irritation and concern mingling together in a hot ball of emotion, it was at that moment that she realized just how tentative their entire situation really was.

Up until this point, she'd only looked at House's health in very specific terms. She'd known that, because of the injury to his temporal lobe, he could – most likely _would_ – be more temperamental. And because of Amber's death (and losing Wilson), he would, she'd understood, be even more susceptible to some of the effects of both his injury and the surgery; because he didn't have the support he would have normally had to overcome this catastrophic event, House had little way of coping with what had happened.

But until today… Cuddy hadn't considered – _at all_ – the possibility that he might be _dangerous_.

_Violent._

In all of the years she had known him, it hadn't ever come to that.

… Well, okay, there were the times that he would provoke a patient into hitting him, so he could hit them back. And, _yes, _he had, unprovoked, broken that teenager's finger in the MRI room… and okay, there'd been the time where he'd been so strung out that he'd punched Chase...

But those incidents had been few and far between, had been surprisingly rare, considering his penchant for trouble making and rabble rousing.

Certainly, he'd never given her a reason to feel that he was dangerous. His disagreeable personality aside, Cuddy had always felt that he knew how to control himself, pull himself back when he was angry. Regardless of everything else, she'd been able trust him _that_ much.

But now… she didn't know what she should think.

As much as he was still House, the man she'd known for _so_ long, he also… _wasn't_ that person anymore. Or rather, for the time being, he _couldn't_ be that person anymore; his head was too injured to allow for that.

And that fact meant that Cuddy couldn't blame him for this sudden shift in personality. Indeed, she _didn't_ blame him for that, for something that he clearly had no control over.

At the same time though…

She sighed loudly, the bedroom door quietly shutting behind House, leaving her finally alone. She didn't blame him, she repeated to herself.

But nevertheless, she couldn't deny that she could no longer trust him.

His actions only moments earlier had proven that.

As much as she wanted to, she could _not_ trust him.

He was simply too sick.

Which meant that, no matter how improved his other faculties were, she wouldn't be leaving him alone, much less allowing him to treat patients, for a _long_ time. It just wasn't safe, she realized. And although that wasn't a punishment in _her_ mind, she realized that he would definitely think that it was.

Hell, he already seemed to believe that. Her mere presence in his home was all the proof he needed to feel as though she were penalizing him.

But what else could she do? Looking around the empty living room, lost, Cuddy asked herself, what other choice did she have?

Feeling bitterness begin to tug on her heavy heart, she swallowed hard to try and push the emotion away. Trying to reassure her own conscience, she told herself that it wasn't like she had a lot of options here; given his precarious state and his now near constant isolation, there weren't a lot of ways she could maneuver.

In the past, she'd been able to get Wilson, his team, _Stacy_ to look out for him. But the first and last were gone, at least for the time being, and House had just replaced his fellows. Which meant that the new ones didn't care, weren't attached enough to him to really be reliable, and even if they were, House would hardly reciprocate those feelings. And his old team, with the exception of Foreman, were too happy being _away_ from House to consider watching over him as though he were a child.

And that was really the end of her list of people who she could rely on to watch him. He wasn't very close to his family – that much was incredibly clear to her. He'd once confessed to her that he _hated_ his father, and those words, quietly murmured in a voice that implored her to understand, coupled with his offer to work in the _clinic_ to get out of a family dinner, had stuck with her.

But even if he had been close with his parents, that wouldn't help her in the long run. They might be able to do what she was doing now, but they wouldn't be able to ensure his safety – and his _patients'_ safety – at work. And that _was_ Cuddy's goal – to eventually get House healthy enough so that he could continue on with his life as it had been before.

Of course, that made it sound like she _only_ cared about him as a part of her hospital, which couldn't have been further from the truth. She cared about House in ways she wished weren't true, cared about him more than she knew she should.

He was a resource to her, yes.

But he was more than that as well.

He was a friend, and _as_ his friend, she understood that he wouldn't be happy if he never returned to work. Actually, he would be _miserable_ – and that was probably an understatement – if he never took another case. And knowing that, Cuddy had had to at least _consider_ what might happen _when_ he returned to work.

The thought always in the back of her mind, she realized that House's parents would be a quick fix (if that), and that, in the end, she would have to watch House anyway.

So really, she had no other choice but to do exactly what she was doing.

Yet, knowing that that gave her no peace of mind made her feel completely helpless, made her feel as though any action she took would make things worse for everyone involved.

And why _shouldn't_ she feel that way, she demanded to know, grumpily flopping down onto the couch in defeat. Nearly everything she'd done so far had ended in disaster. Watching over House in the hospital had made him resent her; staying with him now made Wilson feel the same way, and encouraging the two men to talk to one another had only served to exacerbate that anger towards her.

And just when she'd thought things could get _better_ for all of them, when House _finally_ agreed to call Wilson, their situation became that much _worse_. Because not only had House's choice made Wilson even angrier, the man she was currently living with now looked at her as though she had _hoped_ this would happen.

He hadn't even really said it yet, but in those blue eyes that had seemed so foreign to her at the time, she'd _seen_ the blame, the betrayal – all of it – so clearly meant for her. Which meant that he didn't _need_ to say it.

She already knew.

Lashing out at the rabbit could be written off as a product of his injured mind, but his anger towards _her_ could _not_, and she couldn't deny that fact, no matter how hard she wanted to.

He _did_ resent her.

He _did_ blame her.

And if trying to hurt the tiny rabbit had any rational basis in his mind, Cuddy knew that the reason came down entirely to _her_.

Of course, House, were he to hear her thoughts, would accuse her of being narcissistic. She supposed she was; if she really believed she were the one to blame for everything that had gone wrong, she guessed it wasn't insane to say that she also believed that she had control over everything around her, House and Wilson included.

So maybe it was a little bit their fault as well, she thought, the guilt inside of her easing slightly. But then it also seemed wrong to blame either of them for the way things were turning out. Because _they_ were suffering, House and Wilson both. The former had almost lost his life, his sanity… _everything_ that was important to him. And Wilson had lost Amber, which wasn't a small thing either. Cuddy herself couldn't quite grasp what it was about the other woman Wilson had liked so much, but Cuddy had seen all too well that Amber's death was destroying him.

House and Wilson were filled with grief, too caught up in their own pain to understand the full ramifications of her actions.

_She_ was not.

Everything and everyone she cared about had survived. Of course, they might have changed irrevocably, but they were okay; they were _here_, and Cuddy thought that that fact alone should have made it easy for her to step back and evaluate the situation for what it was. She should have been able to know what they all needed and found some way to navigate through it.

That she hadn't succeeded in doing that made her feel… like a failure.

A _complete_ and utter failure who hadn't done anyone even the slightest bit of good.

It wasn't narcissistic to think _that_, she told herself glumly, feeling the frown on her face deepen. Seeing just how pervasive her _inadequacy_ was hardly constituted egocentrism; it might have been damning but not because she thought she was the center of the universe.

Tears welling in her eyes, Cuddy glanced down at her feet, as though somehow looking at the black pumps now lightly dusted with tan dirt could help her retrace her steps. Obviously she knew they couldn't; the shoes might have had many pluses – the ability to make her look taller, thinner, more self-assured than she really was – but they didn't have the power to show her just what went wrong.

And even if they _could_, she supposed it didn't matter. Since they didn't possess the ability to time travel, couldn't allow her to fix whatever mistake she'd made, what was the point?

Sniffling loudly, she tried to will away the enormous sense of failure threatening to engulf her. Just as her heels couldn't fix things, rationally she understood that defeat and guilt over the matter wouldn't work either. Moping about, allowing herself to get caught up in reliving the ways she'd screwed up wouldn't make House and Wilson better; she knew that much.

There was only one way this got better, she told herself, and that was to keep going, to keep fighting. To reach into herself and find _some_ strength to keep walking the tight rope House and Wilson had erected for her was the _only_ way this could get better.

But somehow… that knowledge left her cold.

Instead of feeling determined, she simply felt exhausted and scared. Not only had she been fighting for House and Wilson's friendship with a tenacity never used when trying to save her _own_, she'd also been doing it for what felt like _years_ now. And in that time, she'd put her own life completely on hold, taking care of House a full-time job she hadn't even been sure she wanted.

Of course, she didn't _mind_ doing it, she immediately confessed to absolutely nobody. Making sure he didn't do anything _else_ that would jeopardize his safety was, in the long run, good for _her_, because it meant she didn't have to worry about him.

Well, maybe that wasn't true; she worried about him regardless, but at least by watching his every move, she could lessen the likelihood of him being back in the hospital as a patient anytime soon.

But there was more to it than that. More than just a way to keep him safe, staying with him had given Cuddy some appreciation for her deep and abiding affection for him. Because, considering, more often than not, she was thinking about how _irritating_ he was, how _problematic_ he was, this time with him had allowed her to begin to see just how tightly wound the bond between them was. And if she were uncomfortable with how things were progressing, it wasn't because she resented House for needing help.

She didn't blame him or _anyone_ for the choice she'd made in the hospital to care for him. But knowing that there was so much more work to be done…

It made Cuddy wonder just how much more she would have to sacrifice and suffer through before they could get back to some arbitrary point in their history that currently held the allure of being idyllic. How much harder would she have to fight to take them back to a time, which in reality had made House _and_ Wilson miserable, that seemed so peaceful and perfect now?

Questioning whether or not such a thing was even possible, she put her head in her hands then. Fingers blocking her face from the outside world, she let out a shaky breath before the tears began to slide down her cheeks.

And even though House couldn't see it, wasn't even in the same room as her, he _knew_ that she was crying. His back pressed against the bedroom door, he knew all too well that he'd crossed a line. He could feel it in his bones, heard it above the loud of buzz constantly in his ear:

He'd screwed up.

_Again_.

He'd hurt her.

_Scared_ her.

And the worst part about all of it was that _that_ wasn't enough to stop him from being angry.

On the outside, he supposed that he seemed calm, but he could tell that he was still mad; the monster that had been awoken cried out for blood, for her to feel guiltier than she already did, and it wouldn't retreat until he had one or both. The pain he was causing her barely enough to give him pause, it wasn't nearly enough to make him _stop_. It certainly didn't make his whole body thrum with the knowledge that she'd really been trying to help. Maybe some rational part of him understood that, but the side of himself that was in control simply taunted that she'd wanted him to suffer _more_.

And it was for that reason that he locked the bedroom door behind himself. Not the possibility of her hurting him more but the _probability_ of him hurting _her_ weighing heavily on him, he knew he couldn't be near her now.

It was odd that that should be the case. Since Cuddy had moved in, he hadn't been allowed to lock anything. She watched him bathe, practically scratched at the door to come in when he was taking a dump, and she'd now slept in his bed with him as well. She'd given him no privacy at all, and House had resented her for it more than he could describe. But now that he was forcing distance between them, was clutching what little space he could possible have, he realized the irony of the situation:

He didn't want space.

For all of his talk, for all of his complaining, he'd gotten used to her presence. And he was beginning to see just how much he _did_ want her here. If only to prove to himself that he _hadn't_ driven everyone he cared about away, he wanted to keep her close.

To be sure, it was a motivation that was completely unfair to her, because it wasn't like he was truly hoping for _her_ company. He didn't want to keep her close, he told himself, because she was _important_ to him.

He just didn't want to be alone.

Thanks to his behavior, however, House believed he'd only _guaranteed_ himself a life without friends. He'd insulted and threatened and hurt and manipulated them, and all of his actions now seemed to damn him to the kind of existence he hadn't even realized he'd feared.

Sighing he moved away from the door. His leg was beginning to hurt with a ferocity that demanded he get off of his feet. Lumbering towards the bed, he knew that, if Wilson were here, he'd say that House's pain was related to feeling guilty or something along that vein. In Wilson's mind, physical pain had never just been that; any sore or ache had to have psychological implications behind it, House thought, bitterness seizing hold of him.

The feeling funneled into his system at a breakneck speed. Anger and disgust quickly followed, turning him into a hot coil of emotion and energy begging for release. His thigh muscle painfully contracting, his hands forming into fists, he forced himself towards his bed.

He didn't trust himself to be anywhere else at the moment, didn't trust himself to do anything other than try to will away the feelings threatening to convince him to do something incredibly stupid.

Rationally House thought that this sudden urge to emote had everything to do with his brain injury. An inability to control yourself was a classic sign of TBI, after all. And even if were to take into consideration all of his emotional outbursts in the past, it still would seem out of character, he told himself, for him to find himself so… _rageful_ for no apparent reason.

And it _was_ for no apparent reason.

As much as he didn't like the idea of his pain being psychosomatic, it wasn't enough to make him want to _hurt_ something or someone; it wasn't enough to make him feel like he was feeling right now.

Lying on the bed, he tried to push through the emotion that weighed heavily on him, that prevented him from being able to do anything anytime soon.

But it was to no avail.

Because even though he desperately wanted to clear his mind, purge himself of the bitterness within him, it was impossible to do so. How could he, he wondered in frustration. How _could_ he make himself _not_ feel something he hadn't even intended to feel in the first place?

The pain in his thigh increasing tenfold, one of his hands instinctively darted towards the damaged muscle. Gingerly kneading the area through his jeans, he knew that it would do him no good. Massage helped but only so much. It could take away the upper echelons of his pain, could make his physical condition _almost_ seem bearable, but it couldn't make the pain go away. It couldn't erase the barely contained desire to saw his own leg off, nor could it give him enough peace to sleep or function.

There was only one thing that could do that: Vicodin.

But thanks to Cuddy's _stupid_ rules, he wouldn't be able to have one for another four hours.

_Yeah_, he thought sourly, his anger wasn't going to be going away any time soon.

To a normal person, four hours didn't seem like too long a wait. But _he_ was not normal; his _pain_ was not normal. And the thought of going another four hours like _this_ made him wish that he _had_ snapped that rabbit's neck, so that Cuddy would have been disgusted enough to go away and leave the drugs behind her.

He hadn't though, he thought, his fingertips digging into his injured muscle. He'd gone too far but not far enough, and that made all the difference between being in pain and being pain-free.

For a brief moment, House entertained the idea of demanding more drugs. But he instantly dismissed the thought; even if he _did_ believe that his leg would support him at the moment, he _didn't_ think that Cuddy would give him more Vicodin. She was naïve enough to think that his pain would listen to her rules and more than likely upset enough to make him suffer even if she didn't.

Either way, it meant that he was going to stay the way he was.

Indefinitely.

He could feel himself begin to panic at the thought. It had been a while – not since Tritter, in fact – since he'd allowed himself to be in this position – to be in pain without the Vicodin just in his reach. Because, even though Cuddy had been timing his meds for a while now, his leg had been… reasonably behaved. And too, she'd been gracious about it as well, so he'd been okay all this time.

He'd been _fine_, and all he'd wanted was for her to leave, he thought gravely, guilt pinning him to the unforgiving mattress. Even if she would consider giving him the Vicodin, House wasn't sure that he deserved it.

No, he corrected immediately, he _didn't_ deserve it. After all he'd done to make Stacy, Amber, Wilson, and now Cuddy miserable… House didn't think he'd earned any relief, any step away from misery himself.

And that continued to sound right to his ears, even as the ache in his thigh ratcheted itself up another notch, for a while. He'd never been one to allow himself to suffer needlessly, but suffering because he'd _screwed up _was something he could, apparently, get behind.

To a point.

He made it three hours, running on the sole Vicodin in his system, before the pain became too much. His thigh's frayed nerves feeling as though they were being pinched and pulled from every imaginable direction, it became impossible to ignore. As it often did when he tried to deny himself the drugs, tried to pretend as though he didn't need the one thing that would make him feel better.

In truth, House had hoped that he'd be able to rouse some super human strength to avoid having to ask Cuddy for more pills. It was nothing short of _humiliating_ to have to grovel at her feet for something he wouldn't _need_ if not for her.

As soon as that thought popped into his head, he groaned in frustration. _Why_ was he continuing to think things that he didn't even really believe to be true? What the _hell_ was wrong with his brain that he couldn't filter any of this ridiculous garbage out?

_Okay_, so he did know what was wrong with his mind. Bus accident plus heart attack plus coma plus deep brain stimulation totaled to turning into a complete idiot. The mathematical equation was one he could clearly see on his imaginary whiteboard, but for the life of him, that knowledge somehow didn't translate into something he could understand much less tolerate.

Trying to push back the emotion that railed on him like waves pounding onto sand, House didn't have time to consider how much it hurt to move. Nor did he think about the ringing in his ears or the words he was going to say to Cuddy when he came across her. There was only one thing on his mind, and it was finding a way to make himself not feel things he wasn't even really feeling. And that made sense, he thought drolly; his _sanity_ should come before everything else.

So when he found Cuddy, who was crying a little as she tried to shove the black and white rabbit into the cage she'd set up, he didn't really know what to say. "Sorry for scaring the crap out of you by almost turning the _precious_ little bunny that has a startling resemblance to Hitler, by the way, into a pair of earmuffs" didn't sound right, even to his own screwed up head.

And so, he simply announced, as she looked up at him carefully, "I need Vicodin."

Glancing down at her watch, Cuddy immediately wrote him off. "It's too early."

"My leg hurts. I can't wait."

She didn't say anything right away, her focus on getting the latch on the cage to work. Which was harder for her at the moment than it normally would have been, he realized; her fingers trembling a little, gaze more than likely blurry with tears, it took her a few tries to get it right.

Completely changing the subject, she explained, brushing some hair out of her eyes, "I'll take the rabbit back tomorrow. The store closed at six, so I can't do it today."

But House honestly couldn't have cared less about that. "Whatever. Pills?"

At first, she gave him a dark, accusing look, and he wasn't sure if that was because she wanted him to apologize or something else. Maybe it was because she'd already said no and his badgering made her feel like the soccer mom of a six-year-old who still asked if they were there yet on car trips. Maybe she'd just wanted him to tell her that he actually liked the gift – he didn't really know.

And she didn't give him any more clues as to what she meant; sighing she conceded, "Fine. Medication's on the butcher block where I left it."

_That_ made him curious. "You're not going to get it for me and dole it out like that one bottle is the only bottle left in the world?"

Cuddy shrugged, only making him more interested in what was going on. Folding her arms across her chest, she explained in a voice that made her sound both nervous and unemotional at the same time, "If today has proven anything… it's that I can't make these decisions for you anymore. I _shouldn't_ make those decisions for you." Gesturing into the empty air, she said, "So take what you want. Do what you want."

And what he took from that was that she didn't care anymore. Which didn't really make any sense, he thought. Because, even if he'd scared her by nearly killing the rabbit, in the end, she'd still gotten what she'd wanted; he'd _called_ Wilson – he'd done exactly what she'd been begging him to do… and now she was done.

It was enough to reawaken the fury within him. "So that's it," he told her, bitterness lacing each word. "You got what you wanted, and now you're done."

She visibly scoffed at what he was saying. "_I_ got what _I_ wanted?" There was shock and disbelief in her voice that irritated him.

"I called Wilson," he reminded her.

Shaking her head, Cuddy said, "_Yeah_. You did. But _that_ – what happened – is _hardly_ what I wanted."

To be honest, he wasn't sure how he should feel about what she was saying. His instincts told him that this wasn't anything he'd seen from Cuddy before. She was a perfectionist in the worst kind of way, never happy unless things were _just right_, as though she were some middle-aged, even more anal version of Goldilocks. And for her to stand in front of him, admitting, in not so many words, that things had gone wrong and that she _wasn't_ going to try and fix it felt empty to him.

His eyes narrowed on her. "So you're done," he said, sounding a little suspicious.

"Yup."

"Just like that?"

"Yes," she said firmly. Laughing a little, she told him, "You are finally getting what you wanted. I'm not going to meddle anymore."

But that only made him more confused and suspicious than he already was. "I don't understand. You're not –"

"I'm not going to monitor your drug use. I'm not going to beg you to talk to Wilson again," she explained in a flat tone as she wiped what tears were still on her cheeks. "I know that you'll accuse me of being slow on the uptake, but I've _finally_ realized that I can't change you. Or _this_."

Still that didn't seem right, because Cuddy was nothing if not persistent; she didn't like to admit defeat, didn't like to give up. Certainly if she did, she would have fired him _years_ ago.

Or maybe it was more accurate to say that she would have never _hired_ him, his reputation undoubtedly too much of a concern for anyone convinced that people were who they were and could not be changed. And given the way she persisted in her attempts to get him to do his clinic duty, refrain from blowing up hospital property, and perform tests to verify his theories, House knew she wasn't one of those individuals.

Cuddy was… a rarity in hospital administrators, not _just_ because she was a woman and under the age of sixty. Unlike many of them – well, unlike _most_ of them, she was willing to take risks. And maybe part of that had to do with the fact that she was naïve, to an extent anyway. She liked to speak of what was best for the hospital and Nuremburg Codes and all of that, but he knew all too well that what motivated her deep down inside, at least when it came to _him_, was the belief that she could make him better. If she tried hard enough, worked with him long enough, she could make him a better person.

So too did he know that she believed the same could be said for this entire situation. If she balanced her sympathy between him and Wilson long enough, Cuddy had probably convinced herself that things could go back to normal.

And knowing that, he couldn't help but be suspicious of her words, because as well as he understood her motivations in life, as well as he understood _her_, this just didn't seem right. If anything her apparent decision to back off seemed incredibly out of character.

Which meant that there had to be something else going on, something she wasn't telling him. But what that was exactly, he didn't really know.

Of course his first explanation for the seemingly sudden change of heart was that she was simply trying to manipulate him. Into doing what, he also didn't know, but nevertheless manipulation made sense. Certainly, if _he'd _randomly begun to act differently, chances were it would have been because he was trying a seedier approach to get what he wanted. And Cuddy had definitely been wanting something from him.

All this time, she'd been trying to get him to talk to Wilson, trying to get House to accept her decision to stay with him, to ration his pills, to have a presence in his life. So maybe, upset yet somehow still feeling the urge to continue with her plan, she'd decided to use a bit of reverse psychology on him; show him just how incapable he was of managing his own life, and she'd have all the control she wanted.

Granted, it seemed a little over the top for her, a little too manipulative and calculating to really feel like something she was capable of. But he realized that these were not normal circumstances; this wasn't her trying to get him to do his clinic duty or something equally small. She was looking for a much bigger concession, and because of that, perhaps she _was_ willing to be that devious.

It made perfect sense really… as long as he didn't take in the earnestness in her eyes, which was so clear in the blue irises that he could practically feel it; her honesty permeating the air, somehow changing the quality of it, it was so obvious to him that he couldn't help but immediately abandon that train of thought.

She wasn't playing him.

She was honestly giving him the freedom she had so willingly taken away from him.

He understood that much.

But that was about all he knew, her motivation for backing away beyond his grasp.

Looking at her a little longer, he tried to deduce what was going on in her head. Maybe it was stupid to think that the answer would jump out at him through a simple look, but the only thing he was concerned about was getting some sort of explanation. Because he just had to know why she was doing this, why she was saying that she was done.

Puzzle pieces scattered all around him, House tried to fit it all back together… to no avail, of course, because no matter how carefully he watched her, he couldn't glean any information from her.

Well, maybe he should have said: he couldn't glean any _new_ information from her. Because he could tell she was still visibly shaken from what had happened earlier; she was almost obsessively checking on the rabbit in the cage to make sure it was okay, hovering over it in a way she only ever did when she was reacting to stress. The remainder of tears was a new addition to the mix. But the pacing, the nervous, intent gaze – all of it was symptomatic of Cuddy's head exploding.

Nevertheless, it didn't explain why she was suddenly giving him back his pills.

Watching her for a few more seconds, he waited for an answer.

But none came.

And with his leg still aching, he couldn't physically wait for an answer any longer. "Fine," he muttered. If she wasn't going to give him an explanation, if one wasn't going to come to him, then oh well; there were more important things to take care of at the moment.

He limped into the kitchen, forcing himself _not_ to fixate on the puzzle before him or the pain in his thigh. Which really left him _nothing_ to think about, he thought wryly, his eyes scanning for the Vicodin Cuddy had said would be in the room.

The bottle was lying on the counter, and House felt only slightly relieved by the sight of it. As he shook a pill free from its plastic container, he didn't get the feeling he normally got when he knew the ache in his thigh would be lessened within an hour. There was no seemingly long awaited exhale, no immediate drop in blood pressure, no feeling as though he was getting the one thing he needed.

He popped a Vicodin into his mouth and swallowed with effort. It was odd, at least it felt odd, considering the last month, to be able to take a pill without needing Cuddy's permission. It was odder still that she'd managed somehow to engrain in him that he _needed_ her okay. Truly, after everything they'd been through, after all the fighting on this very point, House thought it was just plain _bizarre_ to have some part of him be completely, unknowingly comfortable with Cuddy being in control, essentially, of his life.

Well, okay, he thought with a cock of the head, _that_ might have been overstating it. She wasn't in control of _everything_, and more to the point, he sure as hell wasn't comfortable with that idea, his entire body filling with nervous energy at the very concept of Cuddy making all the decisions for him.

But maybe… he was okay, at least on some level, with someone setting boundaries for him.

The thought giving him pause, it was at that moment that he understood: if there were one thing truly bizarre about these circumstances, it was _that_ fact.

As a general rule, he _hated_ boundaries – despised them to a point that he honestly felt compelled to push beyond them at every available opportunity. And all prior experience said that he should be doing the same here; hell, in many ways, he had been testing Cuddy's limits. Since the very second he'd woken up, he'd been pushing to see how far he could go with her.

But at the same time, it was clear that this situation was different – was _becoming_ different. Because emerging from his well-established routine was an inkling of acceptance for… Cuddy being here, for her rules and regulations, for the one basic fact that he couldn't deny – that he'd crossed too many lines and hurt too many people, specifically the one person he loved.

And for the first time, House could accept that he needed limits… that he needed help. At this point, he wasn't sure if it was help to get Wilson back, to change his own ways, or something else. But House did know that there was something awfully ironic about the situation. And he could only detest that aspect of things, because the irony was this:

He needed help, but thanks to his own actions…

The one person who'd been willing to give him what he needed – Cuddy – would no longer be the one to do it.

Across town, Wilson was coming to a similar conclusion, his own angry words echoing in his mind. It had been only hours since he'd talked to Cuddy, but already he felt guilty. Sitting at her kitchen table, he wasn't sure why that was. He realized that he truly did have a right to be angry with her for meddling in his life, for insisting that he try to be friends once more with House. Or if not for that, then Wilson definitely had a right to resent her for her comment about how he was turning into House.

But for whatever reason, Wilson couldn't find it in him any longer to be angry with her.

Naturally he would have liked to be able to say that there had been a turning point for him. He would have _liked_ to have one of those grand moments of epiphany that House always seemed to have that would completely change his way of thinking.

It hadn't been like that though. To be honest, Wilson had been perfectly content with his anger, comforted by the ire coursing through him. When House had called, Wilson hadn't felt any real sympathy towards the man. The things Cuddy had told him earlier in the week about House's condition might have been niggling Wilson a little bit, but really, for the most, he hadn't cared. And when he'd called Cuddy, the last thing on his mind had been being considerate to _her_ feelings in all of this. He'd slammed the phone shut to stop her from talking, from making excuses without a single iota of guilt.

But somehow between now and then, exhaustion had settled in. And now instead of feeling truly _angry_, Wilson just felt… drained by expending all of that energy on something that wasn't going to change by raging at it. He was just so damn _tired_ of being that pissed off – tired and guilty and _completely _aware of the fact that he'd probably pushed away the one person who'd been trying to help him through this.

He'd been so focused on what Cuddy _wasn't_ willing to do that he'd failed to appreciate what she _was_ capable of giving him.

So now he would have to do it alone, he realized; he'd surely pushed her away after today.

Frankly the thought was nothing short of terrifying. Throughout his life, Wilson had believed that he had some sort of social network to help him through situations like this – or whatever the cliché was. Before Amber died, he'd always thought that he was the kind of person with tons of close relationships. But now… he was being forced to recognize that a lot of his friends had disappeared. They had been driven away by his job, many more through the three divorces he'd been through. And by and large, he'd lost friends because of House, and there weren't enough words to describe how stupid _that_ had been.

It was that thought that made Wilson realize… he was tired of fighting with Cuddy, of being unnecessarily cruel with her, sure. But the same didn't apply, apparently, to House. As tired as Wilson was, as much as he wanted to be done with this entire thing (whatever that meant), he just could _not_ let go of what had happened.

He could not forgive much less forget what House had done to Amber.

And that meant that "moving on" (again, whatever that meant) seemed like nothing short of an impossibility.

The thing was, at the funeral, Cameron had told Wilson that it would take a really long time to get over the loss and that, in the end, it wasn't really so much getting over it as it was learning to deal with Amber's death in a way that didn't affect his every waking move. At the time, he hadn't believed Cameron's words could ever be true for him.

Now… he simply thought that, if it were possible for him to recover from losing the woman he loved, it would take _light years_ for that to happen.

Glancing at the glass he'd drained scotch out of earlier, Wilson worried that there simply wasn't enough alcohol in the world to make the time fly, to make each one of those seconds spent grieving over her seem less miserable than they really were.

But to be honest, Cuddy hoped that that was the case – that Wilson _wouldn't_ have the ability to drink himself into oblivion for an indefinite period of time. Frankly, if she'd known that he was going to handle losing Amber that poorly, Cuddy would have had Foreman and Thirteen clear out _her_ liquor cabinet as well before letting Wilson stay there.

Having remained confused as to what role she should play, if any, in House's recovery, Cuddy had decided to try to distract herself with a magazine for a while. She'd contemplated leaving all together, of course. But given that Wilson was still in _her_ home, she'd known that she didn't exactly have anywhere else to go. And even if she did, she hadn't been sure that it was the right thing to do – to leave, especially when House was holed up in the kitchen with a bottle of Vicodin.

So she'd settled down with a magazine. Part of her had known – _still_ knew – that keeping her preoccupied was an impossible task for the glossy, colorful pages. And it had come as no surprise that she'd kept finding her thoughts wandering back towards the situation in hand. In this particular case, a bright ad for Absolut Vodka made her think of Wilson, of the drinking he'd done in her presence.

She'd never seen him like that before.

Drunk? Yes. Angry? Yes, she'd seen him that way enough times to know that he was capable of both qualities, but never to the extent he'd been when she'd been with him the other day. That had been… completely unlike him, had been _totally_ out of control. And maybe thanks to House's problems, she'd been able to avoid thinking about it too much. But now that she was also trying to avoid thinking about House, Wilson's drinking became all that she could think of.

If it weren't a problem already, Cuddy knew that it would be. Consuming alcohol like that… he wasn't drinking for fun; he was drinking in order to escape everything he was feeling right now. And if that was how he was choosing to cope with losing Amber, Cuddy doubted that he would stop, or be able to stop, if and when he returned to work.

She groaned, flipping the magazine shut and dropping it onto the floor. She _hated_ putting all of their personal issues into professional terms, hated when she did it anyway. When she put their lives in those terms, it sounded, even inside of her own head, as though she only cared about them as hospital resources.

It sounded as though she were little more than a hospital administrator/bitch without any personal life hell bent on making everything about the job. And although she probably didn't have any personal life at this point, Cuddy didn't want to be one of those people who could only interact with others in a professional setting. Certainly she didn't want to be the kind of person who couldn't appreciate the relationships she had with House and Wilson… such as they were.

Nevertheless, she wasn't wrong to be concerned how Wilson's drinking might affect his professional life. House was an addict on her staff, yes, but he had a medical reason for taking Vicodin. Wilson… would _not_ have the same pass, and if he tried to treat patients while intoxicated, if he made a _mistake_ while intoxicated, she would have to fire him. And then where would he be?

The prospect worried her beyond words, but… given what had happened with House, Cuddy wasn't sure that she could help anyway. And it was that thought that once more brought her back to her current situation.

She'd screwed up.

If she'd recognized that Wilson wasn't ready, if she'd gone slower, if she hadn't forced House to make that call… they would have all been better off. Wilson wouldn't be drinking like he undoubtedly was right now; House wouldn't be brooding in the kitchen with a bottle of Vicodin like a little five year old sulking a corner, and the black and white rabbit that was mere feet from her wouldn't be hiding, terrified, in the back corner of its cage.

Yeah. She'd _screwed up_, she thought bitterly, realizing how much she was understating her failure.

And the worst part of all was that Cuddy had _no_ idea how to fix any of it. For a brief moment, when she'd been talking to House, she'd thought leaving him to his own devices was the right thing to do; clearly he couldn't do much worse managing his own life than _she_ had.

But given that he'd been alone with the Vicodin for almost an hour now, given that he'd seemed almost… _hurt_ by her words, she had to wonder if she hadn't made yet another mistake.

To be honest, she was a little afraid to find out either way. If giving him that tiny bit of freedom back made him miserable, then Cuddy would feel immensely, indescribably guilty. The last thing she wanted was to cause him more pain.

On the other hand, if he were thrilled by her choice, then she didn't think she would like that either. As much as she didn't want him to be miserable, she didn't want to have the confirmation that she'd literally just wasted the last month of her life thrown in her face.

It seemed like a lose-lose for her, and because of that, part of Cuddy had absolutely no desire to move from the chaise that she was sitting on. Not entirely unlike an ostrich with its head in the sand, part of her preferred to not know the answer. But in the end, she was too curious, too… insistent on knowing how badly she'd messed to stay where she was.

Quietly padding into the kitchen, Cuddy wasn't surprised that House, standing over an open Vicodin bottle, didn't acknowledge her presence; his brow furrowed in concentration, he looked way too distracted to pay any attention to her. So she decided to force the recognition by speaking up, "House?"

He slowly spun around, the movement awkward because of his thigh. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead; she could see his right leg trembling slightly, and even if she hadn't noticed either of those things, there was no missing the look of agony in his eyes. And so she supposed it wasn't all that shocking when he responded with anger in his words, "Change your mind already?"

She refused to take the bait and start a fight. "How many did you take?" She tried to sound as warm and compassionate as possible, but truth be told, Cuddy wasn't sure she'd achieved that... especially when he reacted with an almost exponential amount of ridicule.

"You really _don't_ trust me," he replied knowingly. "You're truly convinced that if I don't have you wiping my ass and cooking me dinner, I'll starve to death in a pile of my own crap." Laughing a little at the thought, he told her, "At first I chalked it up to your _barren_ womb. I guess I should have known better."

"I'm not –"

He interrupted, supplying, "Sterile?" He shrugged, twirling the bottle of Vicodin in his hand. "You can deny it all you want, but your shriveled up uterus says otherwise. Your medical file at the fertility clinic..." He drawled out the revelation slowly, almost hesitantly. "It agrees with your uterus," he finally finished.

There was no good way to describe how she felt as his words began to seep into her mind. There were no appropriate quotations, no clichés or words of wisdom to describe the cold feeling of realization and betrayal hitting her at the same exact moment. Nor was there any way to accurately describe the way fury and a sense of violation consumed her in equal measures at that second. Because she had never felt like this before, never so close to losing all faith in everything she'd told herself about House that was good.

Years of implicit trust, of hoping that he could, in some way, put aside his need to be an asshole and be her friend evaporating, the empty spaces within her quickly filled with anger. And it wasn't surprising to her when she snarled loudly, "You son of a bitch." Every muscle and sinew in her neck straining with effort, she nearly shouted, "You _looked_ in _my_ file without my permission. You _stole_ it."

House had this look on his face that she wanted to smack right off. It wasn't quite amusement nor bemusement but some combination of both. "You stopped in vitro. I was curious," he explained calmly, his own anger somehow dissipating at the presence of hers. "But I didn't know then what I clearly know now: you have a habit of quitting when things don't go your way." She scoffed loudly, but that didn't stop him. "IVF, playing nursey with me… having sex this decade – it all fits a pattern."

Whatever calm she'd imposed on herself after their last conversation was now completely gone. The guilt she'd felt, the tears of sorrow over feeling like a failure – it all seemed foreign to her now. His toxic words wearing down whatever sympathy she'd had for him, erasing it completely, Cuddy was now nothing except furious. "There's _no_ pattern, jackass." Shaking her head, she explained in terse, angry tones, "With in vitro, I _quit_…" The last word came out bitterly, a sneer contorting her features in what had to be an unflattering manner. "Because, as you _so_ kindly put it, my _barren_ womb wasn't ever going to get pregnant."

It was a lie.

Her reasons for stopping IVF were more complicated than that, the decision one that she'd agonized over for months. But the fact of the matter was a lie was much easier to tell in these circumstances. She was angry, annoyed at his constant need to railroad whatever personal relationships he had for the dumbest of reasons, and that didn't exactly make her _want_ to explain herself. So she went with a lie that he probably didn't believe and she didn't care if he believed.

"But I _suppose_," Cuddy continued bitterly. "That, if after all of these years with _you_, I was still willing to assist you in your recovery, it would have fit the _goddamn _pattern for me to continue with in vitro fertilization until I was 90."

She was seething. Heat burned within her, a light rouge blossoming along her chest and cheeks, as did the knowledge that she'd been _so_ stupid for feeling guilty about encouraging House to call Wilson; considering the former's _complete_ inability to be a human being, she couldn't help but believe that his failure had _nothing_ to do with her.

"I was feeling _guilty_," she said, self-loathing evident in every word. "I thought that it was _my_ fault your conversation with Wilson went… _badly_. I thought I'd failed you both so _horribly_ that the only _responsible_ thing for me to do was to take a step back from both of you." Her arms folded across her chest, she finished, "I guess I should have known that that wouldn't be enough for _you_. You'd have to try to humiliate me as well by bringing up something you _never_ had the right to know."

She was practically growling the words out, making no attempt to hide the disgust she felt for him. Her hands were curled into fists against her ribs, and if she hadn't been completely taken aback by the surprise in his gaze, she thought she would have been too tempted to hit him to resist. But instead, she simply watched him, her eyes focused on the way his lips seemed to twist and contort as he looked for the right thing to say.

Eventually he said in a hesitant voice, "I wasn't trying to humiliate –"

Holding up a hand, Cuddy interrupted, "Don't. Just… _stop_ talking."

Really, she didn't think she could take anymore. Her resolve had been clearly wearing for the last month, and today had truly been the final straw. There'd been moments before where she'd considered giving up, moments where she'd actually believed that she'd reached the end of her rope. She'd felt that way only a few _days_ ago when House's behavior had driven her to Wilson.

But that seemed like _nothing_ compared to _this_.

House's behavior today was beyond anything she knew how to deal with – the rabbit, the violation of _her_ privacy; it was just too much at the moment for her to handle. And although part of her _still_ wanted, for whatever reason, to help him through essentially losing Wilson, the majority of her knew that, at this particular second, she couldn't do it. She was too angry with House to help.

Knowing that she turned around and started to walk out of the kitchen. Of course, it was impossible for her to _not_ notice that House was following her, his uneven footsteps loud on the flooring. "Don't follow me," she ordered coolly.

It came as no surprise that he didn't listen.

"House, I'm angry – annoyed. And I'm tired." Picking up the rabbit's cage with both hands, she turned and explained to him in an exhausted voice. "I'm going to bed – _your_ bed, to be exact." His eyes widened a little bit, though probably not due to shock. If anything, Cuddy supposed that he was merely excited about the prospect of using her words against her. Not that she was going to give him a chance to do that. Outside of the bedroom door, she told him in defeat, "We'll talk in the morning."

She closed the door shut behind her and held her breath. It wouldn't exactly be unheard of for him to barge in behind her, ready to continue the fight. Nor would it have been insane to believe he'd spend the next twenty minutes banging on the door like a pathetic dog scratching to come inside.

That he did neither of those things gave her pause. She really had expected one or the other, and having never considered a third option – to just walk away – Cuddy wondered what else she might have missed when it came to understanding House. No doubt, there were things she would never know about him, things he would never let her have access to; to think that she could _ever_ understand him completely was stupid. But nevertheless, sometimes she felt as though she had _no_ clue who he was.

Suffice it to say, nearly everything that had happened today fell under that category.

Hoping that tomorrow would be different, she placed the cage with the rabbit on the floor by the foot of the bed. Part of her supposed that she could have left it in the living room, the chances of House trying to hurt the small creature _again_ miniscule – in her estimation, anyway. But in any case, she'd decided without any hesitation to bring the animal into the room with her… just to be sure. Not that the rabbit would be a problem much longer, she realized, her plans to return it to the pet store the next morning still set in her mind.

Silently sitting on the edge of the bed, Cuddy began to take off her shoes and clothes; there was no way she was going to go back out into the living room, where _House_ was, to get pajamas.

A voice inside of her began to ask what she would do if the pet store refused to take the creature back, and realizing she had no response to that, Cuddy forced herself to think of something else. Of course, what she was left to think about was the fact that she was crawling into _House's _bed in her underwear and one of the tank tops she wore under nearly everything.

God. Just hearing those words in her head made her feel awkward and a little embarrassed. Because even though there was nothing inappropriate about it, she realized how some people might look upon the situation. And considering half her staff (and the entire board of directors) were already convinced that she gave House special treatment, Cuddy knew all too well what they would think was going on here if they were to see it.

Granted the chances of that happening were close to non-existent. But the thought crossed her mind nonetheless. And after everything that had happened today, it was something she wished she'd concentrated on what to do with the rabbit instead.

Crawling under the covers, her heart heavy, she wondered if it were even possible for things to improve.

As the hours ticked by, Cuddy wasn't sure she was going to get an answer to her question. Frankly, the more she thought about the matter, the less likely it seemed that any of them – House, Wilson, herself, or even the damn rabbit – could move beyond what had happened today. To be sure, _she_ had no intention of forgetting that House had rummaged through her medical files without her permission. Everything else… maybe, but she definitely couldn't forget _that_ fact.

And if she couldn't do that, she thought, rolling over onto her side, then what hope did any of them really have? Because in that case, how in the world did she expect Wilson to forgive, to move past what had happened to Amber?

She fidgeted uncharacteristically underneath the covers. The idea that they could all be doomed to stay _exactly_ where they were, the idea that she couldn't _fix_ it, made her body thrum with nervous energy. She felt itchy and cold, and suddenly sleep sounded like something she wouldn't be doing for a very long.

About to roll over once more, Cuddy froze at the sound of the door handle being turned. The tinny noise of the knob being twisted cut through the silence of the room, and she wondered – no, _cursed_ herself for not locking the door behind her.

She didn't want to deal with House right now. It was late, and even though she wasn't falling asleep, she _was_ exhausted from the day's events. And even if he were in a much more agreeable mood, she was decidedly _not_.

The door creaking as it was pushed open, Cuddy knew she had only a few seconds to decide what to do: deal with him as quickly as possible or pretend to be asleep and hope that he would go away.

Understanding that the latter was incredibly childish, she was almost compelled out of shame to talk to him. But facing the prospect of having him say something _else_ to her, of possibly hearing about some _other_ time he invaded her privacy was too much to bear. Closing her eyes decisively, she forced herself to calm down; if she weren't relaxed, her choice would be moot, because he would know that she was awake.

Quickly, thankfully, she managed to even her breathing out so that, when House pushed open the door, he had no idea that she was faking.

Nevertheless, he quietly asked, "Cuddy?"

She refused to answer.

But considering she could hear his feet padding along the floor, she knew he hadn't given up. And for some reason, that filled her with fear; each step he took towards her reminding her of just how vulnerable she was, Cuddy worried about what he might want from her.

It was completely irrational.

She repeated the thought to herself, almost as though thinking it enough times would make it true.

It was _stupid_ to be even the slightest bit afraid of him. He wasn't going to –

The thought was completely abandoned when she heard the springs of the mattress creak.

Practically holding her breath, Cuddy tensed as he sat down on the bed. "Cuddy?" His voice was slightly louder, a little more insistent than before, and because of that, part of her was curious to discover what it was that he wanted.

However, she didn't dare ask.

His nearness was far too unnerving to allow for that, leaving her to lie there, waiting for him to do something.

Truly, without exaggeration, she could feel his presence intently. His breathing filled in the spaces her own controlled inhales and exhales left, making her feel as though there was no oxygen left in the room. Warmth radiated off his body. Her legs and arms bare, save for the thin blankets that seemed to do nothing to shield her from that fact, she felt naked. Vulnerable in a way she despised, she cursed herself for not grabbing her pajamas before trying to hole herself up in here.

Of course, it made her wonder in that moment if this was how he'd felt she _she'd_ done it to him earlier in the week. She'd come in here, much like he was doing now, and he'd pretended to be asleep. And although he'd acted like her intrusion wasn't a big deal, instead choosing to act as though she were interested in sex, perhaps he had minded. If that were the case, if he had been just as uncomfortable as she was now, Cuddy couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

Then again, if he was doing this to prove a point, to show her just how much she'd violated _his_ space, whatever guilt she might have felt would go right out the window.

But just as the bitter thought seized hold of her, she felt House lean over towards her. Bracing herself for whatever might say or do, she thought that this would be the moment where he'd make fun of her or smack her on the ass or something of the sort.

And she supposed that it was _because_ she was expecting something horrible to happen that she was totally unprepared for the warm hand on her back. The heat of his fingertips searing her skin, even through the material of her tank top, his touch made her tense in reaction.

It was a mistake to that, a momentary lapse in her ruse that surely gave her away.

How could it not?

He must have known then, must have _felt_ the change in her body and realized what was happening.

However… within seconds, she could only believe that he hadn't understood what was going on at all. Because it was then that he murmured an apology. "I'm sorry."

And as she listened to him settle back on the bed, Cuddy could only believe that he really did think that she was asleep still. After all, she knew – _all too well_ – that he wasn't the kind of person to apologize – to _anyone_, really, but especially to someone he thought could actually _hear_ the apology.

That fact didn't really matter though; the truth was she _had_ heard him say the words, and that gave her pause. Silently, she listened to him settle down next to her. The bottle of Vicodin – or at least, she assumed it was Vicodin – rattled as he placed it on the nightstand beside the bed. It was obvious to her that he not only meant the apology but that he had no intention of leaving as well. He was going to _sleep_ here.

With her.

Once again, she felt uncomfortable, irrationally so as they'd done this only a few days ago. Regardless, long after his breathing evened out and he fell asleep, she remained wide awake.

House ended up getting up first, the squeaking of the damn rabbit all he needed to wrench him from slumber.

It frustrated him to no end, to have the most desperate desire to sleep and the physical inability to do just that. And it _was_ a physical, not a situation problem, because, although insomnia had many causes, his had everything to do with his hyperacousis and tinnitus; noises – even the soft grunts and cries of a rabbit – became amplified in his mind, creating exponentially loud tones in his mind.

To be honest, he supposed that that was his own fault. Because this was what it really came down to: at any point, he could have avoided this entire scenario; changing one thing – _anything_ – would have made this something he would have only dreamed about. If he'd dealt with the issues that had plagued that fateful night differently, if he hadn't decided to go out and drink, this wouldn't have happened. Or if that night, he'd decided to drink at home, decided to _wait_ for Amber and not get on the bus…

He could have chosen to call Cuddy, could have taken a taxi, and looking back on it now, House understood that those two things would have been simpler, considering he'd known Wilson was on call. He could have _not_ taken enough Physostigmene to stop his heart, could have _not_ forced himself to work on an injured mind, could have _not _done the deep brain stimulation, much less demanded Chase practically fry his brain.

There were so many things House could have done differently, so many mistakes he'd made in the past few months that could have been avoided. Honestly, the only thing he could truly claim to have done consistently right was completely destroy his health and his few friendships.

And he knew that, in the end, there really wasn't anyone else to blame for that.

_That_ was all on him.

Not that he really wanted to dwell on that fact, not when the rabbit continued to cry and his head continued to pound ferociously.

Not when the loud ringing in his ear kept on persisting in piercing tones that seemed to languish on in long notes that never seemed to end. In long notes that probably never _would_ end, he thought darkly, if the past month were any indication. More than likely, he'd be doomed to spend the rest of his life like _this_.

Miserable.

In pain.

Friendless.

With an annoyance permanently attached to him to remind him just how much he'd ruined his life, to never let him forget just how hard he'd worked to put himself in this very position.

The very definition of hell, he wasn't sure he could deal with that for the remainder of his days.

And it hit him all of a sudden then – a sadness so strong and compelling that there was no ignoring it even if he wanted to. The emotion coming at him in fierce waves, he could do nothing but face the onslaught of depression. A question being asked inside of himself of its own volition, it hit him that he didn't really know what the point of continuing on was. Really, what reason did he have, what motivation was there to keep going if _this_ was the rest of his life?

He glanced towards the Vicodin he'd placed on the nightstand only a few hours before.

It would be so easy.

_So_ damn easy.

After all, it was still early in the morning. Cuddy might have had a habit of getting up at ungodly hours, but she wouldn't be up for a while even so. There was barely any sun filtering through the drawn curtains, which meant that, at best, it was probably somewhere around 4:30. And it would be a good, solid hour before she found him…

If he did something.

He wasn't saying for sure that he would.

But _if_ he did decide to, he would have time… unless that damn rabbit kept crying and woke her up, he thought bitterly, realizing how easily things could go downhill for him.

If anything, the noises the animal was making had gotten louder since he'd sat up. Its little squeaks and grunts becoming more and more insistent, it was almost as though the damn thing _knew_ that it had woken House up, _knew_ that it had an audience. Admittedly the thought made him sound paranoid, but he continued to consider the possibility nonetheless until he realized that he needed to do something about it.

He didn't know for sure if the rabbit was trying to spite him just as he didn't know whether or not he was going to do something spectacularly dangerous this morning. He had no real idea, but either way, he _did_ know that the animal needed to shut up. Because even if he decided that being miserable and friendless and alive was better than dying that way, the noises the lame excuse for a pet was making were making _him_ want to cut his own ears off.

Swiftly popping a Vicodin, House knew what he needed to do.

Okay… so that wasn't exactly true; he didn't know what it was that the rabbit wanted, and as such, he wasn't entirely sure what would quiet the creature down. But he recognized that _something_ needed to be done.

Inching towards the edge of the bed, he looked down at the cage Cuddy had set on the floor. For a brief second, House contemplated whether or not he should just open the wire door to the cage and let the damn thing hop around freely. But then he realized that that might not be safe. The rabbit certainly seemed dumb enough to decide that it should jump in the toilet and drown itself or nibble on a Vicodin and O.D.

Naturally it went without saying that House didn't really care if either of those things happened; he didn't necessarily _want_ the rabbit to be hurt. But if it did? Oh well.

Cuddy, on the other hand, would _not_ feel the same way. If something were to happen, she _would_ get pissy with him. And seeing as how she didn't need any more reasons to feel that way, he understood that an injured rabbit would only make things worse.

Not that they could get _much_ worse.

His admittance last night – that he'd confirmed what he'd suspected about Cuddy's reasons for giving IVF up – had largely been an inadvertent one. He hadn't ever really planned on letting her know what he'd done, because he'd known that _this_ was how she would react to the news. But then again, he'd been trying to prove a point; he'd been trying to understand her motivation, and in doing so, he'd said what he knew to be true in order to show a pattern. And that had, understandably, gotten him into trouble.

So really, chances were she was going to be a bitch all day anyway; he didn't need to give her any _more_ ammunition. Thumper kicking the bucket because he let the damn thing hop around the apartment would definitely fall into the "giving Cuddy more reasons to act like a twat" category.

That thought firmly planted in his mind, House reached down and carefully pulled out the rabbit. He couldn't just _leave_ it in the cage, screaming its head off, so he supposed he'd just have to keep an eye on it until he decided what it was he wanted to do.

But that plan was immediately abandoned. The second he scooped the animal up, its cries became infinitely louder.

And _that_ woke Cuddy up.

Her eyes popped open, a groan escaping from the back of her throat. Dark, unkempt curls tickled the bare curves of her shoulders as she sat up to see what was going on. And though he quickly placed the rabbit on the bed, he hadn't been fast enough to avoid suspicion. Her voice deep and throaty, her words slightly slurred, she demanded to know, "What are you doing?"

He had a sinking feeling that no matter how he answered the question, it would sound all wrong.

He wasn't wrong about that.

"The thing woke me up, so –"

"What did you do?" She'd woken up completely, her eyes alert and narrowed on him.

House sneered at her. "_Nothing_. The rabbit was making noise. I couldn't sleep, so I thought that if I let it out, it would _shut_ _up_. And then it got louder, and _you_ woke up." He was annoyed and frustrated as he added, "I didn't do _anything_."

She looked at him carefully, obviously silently assessing whether or not she could believe what he was saying. Which made him want to kill her and himself, because he thought that she should at least_ try_ to hide her distrust and he should have at least sounded _slightly_ believable.

But he supposed that he _did_ actually sound convincing enough, because she eventually replied, "Okay. I'll take care of it." She scratched her head absentmindedly. "Just… go back to bed."

He was about to point out that he'd been _trying_ to do that until, thanks to Hitler-in-rabbit-form, he couldn't, but then Cuddy pushed the covers off of her body. And he realized that she was in his bed.

In her underwear.

Unrepentantly he leered at her, unable to help himself. Of course that made it sound like he _was_ trying to help himself, and he understood that he really wasn't. Because not a single part of him was interested in _not_ staring at her lithe form.

On _his_ bed.

In her _panties_.

The light in the room was dim; the black and white rabbit was hopping around the bed energetically, but nothing could distract him from just how gorgeous she really was.

Granted he was never _not_ aware of that fact. There were times where he was painfully aware of how attractive she was; he supposed that this would have simply been another one of those times if not for the fact that she was practically half-naked, her thin legs bare and pale against the dark sheets, if not for the tantalizing amount of intimacy that seemed to charge the air with a certain energy.

"Don't look at me like that," Cuddy told him with a roll of her eyes.

His gaze snapped upwards to meet hers. "You're half-naked. How the hell am I supposed to look at you?"

She sighed as she climbed out of bed. Her clothing – or lack of clothing – seemed all the more lascivious now that she was just standing in front of him like that, and because of that, he barely listened to her say, "Then don't look at all."

Perhaps noticing the beginning of a glazed-over stare on his face, she said irritably, "You know what? Nevermind. I'm going to go find pants. And then I'll take care of the rabbit. You just… try and go back to sleep."

Cuddy padded out of the room, and temporarily distracted by her ass and the unintentionally hot sway of her hips, House let the possibility of sleep disappear completely for a moment. He was exhausted, sure, but watching her seemed _way_ more important.

Not that he was really going to be able to sleep anyway, he thought miserably. No matter how exhausted he was, finding his way back to the spot he'd been in in his REM cycle seemed unlikely at this point. Because he'd gone through the motions of waking up, now he was some odd mix of annoyed, tired, alert, and horny, and it just didn't seem possible to close his eyes and relax.

Then again, the corner of his eye catching the Vicodin bottle practically calling out for him, he realized that he wasn't exactly being forced to go it alone.

Reaching for the drugs, he nearly jumped when he heard Cuddy ask, "How many of those have you taken?"

"Not enough for that question _not_ to annoy me."

She dropped a box irritably onto the floor. "That's too many negatives at this hour," she groused, opening the flaps of cardboard on the container.

He didn't reply to the comment, his focus on the box at her feet. It was long and thin, tall enough for him to see even though he was on the bed and the box was on the floor. There was a picture of a happy rabbit in a wire fence on the side of cardboard, and immediately, House's mood worsened.

"Sorry," he told her, not sounding even remotely apologetic. "But you're gonna have to build Hitler's _playpen_ elsewhere."

Cuddy shot him a withering glare. "Look, I _get_ that you don't like the damn thing, but it's not _Hitler_. You don't have to be – "

He looked at her curiously. "Have you _looked_ at the rabbit?" Just in case she hadn't really paid attention, House grabbed the exuberant animal, who promptly gave a loud cry in shock. Holding it up in the air, he pointed out, "It looks exactly like him – funny little mustache, black ears for the hair –"

"And the black around her eyes and along her back?"

She didn't say anything about the way he was holding the rabbit, but in her eyes was concern… _fear_ that what had happened yesterday would happen again. And though part of him felt as though he should just do what she assumed he would do, should just meet her extremely low expectations, he fought to keep control of himself and plopped the rabbit back onto the bed.

Trying to sound calm, he replied easily, "So it's Hitler after he got into a bar fight."

She pursed her lips together for a second. "You're not being funny," she said immediately. But after a minute or so, as she began to put the pen together for the rabbit, Cuddy added, "You know what? Nevermind. Call the rabbit whatever you want; it'll be gone later today anyway."

Pouting dramatically, he whined, "That's not fair. You can't give someone something and then take it back."

"Generally, you'd be right," she conceded. "But considering you haven't held that animal right _once_ since you've had it, I think it would be best if you gave it to someone who would… appreciate it."

Part of him wished that there was some way to prove her wrong, to show her that he could – _did_ – appreciate the rabbit.

But there wasn't.

Being brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that he hadn't done anything to show that he liked the gift. Certainly he hadn't demonstrated that he knew how to care for the animal – or even that he _did_ care about it in his own way, for that matter.

All he'd managed to do was scare the hell out of both of them by nearly snapping the would-be-pet's neck.

So really he had _no _grounds for arguing with Cuddy, and he knew that, aware enough of his own actions to choose silence over a fight. Instead, he quietly watched Cuddy build the pen.

Overall, she had an easier time with it than he thought she would. The small fencing had come mostly assembled; all anyone had to do was hook some latches together and thread metal pins in various locations, and it was done. And indeed, ten minutes later, Cuddy had managed to put the whole thing together.

"Here we go," she said sweetly, gently scooping the rabbit up off of the bed.

But the bunny didn't seem to understand her intentions. If anything, it looked like it wanted absolutely nothing to do with her at all. And whether that was the result of the rabbit's inherently skittish nature – or the nature now forced upon it by House himself – he didn't know. Either way, all it wanted to do was get away from her the second Cuddy touched it. Its white feet kicking in the air, its little mouth making loud noises, it clearly didn't like what was going on.

Cuddy didn't give up though, cradling the animal to her chest until she could safely put it in the pen.

And only then, when she was visibly sure the thing was okay did she murmur, "You better hope I can take her back."

"Afraid I _wrecked_ the precious little bunny for everyone else?"

The question seemed to make the air around them heavy and filled with tension.

Looking at him sadly, she replied quickly (way too quickly to be believable), "Of course not. That's not –"

"Why not?" He interrupted her, not interested in the lie she was certain to tell. "I killed Wilson's girlfriend."

"You didn't –"

"I stole your medical files, because I was curious," he mentioned casually. Her features hardened at the reference, but she didn't say anything. And he thought that was good, because really, at this point, she should have realized that, now that the secret was out, he was going to be talking about it if and when it served his purpose to do so. And since they were talking about whether or not he was a terrible human being, whether or not he had the power to destroy something, wreck it well and good…

It just seemed like the perfect time to bring up what he'd done.

"I bring out the worst in people. _You_ said that," he recalled, his throat working hard to modulate his tones into something dull and flat. "I treat everyone like crap, and it makes everyone else do the same."

She shook her head emphatically. "That's not –"

"Sure it is," he said easily. He might have hated that fact; he _did_ hate that fact, but at this point, there was _no_ denying that it _was_, indeed, a _fact._ "So lets just admit you're worried they won't take Fluffy von Mittens back, because you think I permanently ruined it for everyone else."

"I'm _not_ saying that, House," she insisted, sadness weighing heavily on her features. She sounded exasperated, sounded as she usually did when she thought he was wasting her time with really cracked out ideas. But he didn't believe her, not for one second, that she actually considered what he was saying to be all that out there.

It _wasn't_ that odd a theory.

And how could he think otherwise when all signs pointed to the fact that he really was a toxic human being whose only ability was to ruin everything and everyone around him?

The question gnawing at his stomach, sending guilt and acid into the back of his throat, House instinctively glanced towards the bottle of the Vicodin. The thought crossed him that if he'd been dabbling in suicidal ideation before, that was nothing compared to how he felt right now.

Of course _now_ Cuddy was awake, which would make any plan almost impossible to carry out. And worse still was the fact that she seemed to be aware of what he was thinking. Her eyes on him as he looked longingly at the Vicodin, she asked again, "How many have you taken?"

Eagerly he grabbed the bottle and popped another pill into his mouth. "However many I took plus that one," he replied snidely.

"_House_." She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a demanding look that said he'd better answer the question or else. Of course, what the "or else" in that sentence was he didn't know.

"Don't trust me?"

Her answer was a slow, carefully modulated "I would just like a straight answer from you."

"What do you think the chances of that are?" The question was joking, but Cuddy obviously didn't appreciate the sarcasm in it; a low growl – an actual _growl_ – escaping her, she was clearly displeased by the way he was handling this. So he chucked the bottle of pills her way.

She caught them thankfully, a surprised look crossing her face in a way that made him almost amused. Suspiciously she asked, "What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Well, since you obviously don't trust me, count it."

There was no denying, not even to himself, that this was a big move on his part. He honestly didn't know how many Vicodin he'd taken since she'd given the pills back, but it had to be more than enough to make her realize that he _shouldn't_ have the drugs in his possession. Which meant one of two things would happen, neither of which he was entirely looking forward to.

On the one hand, she could see that he was taking a _lot_ of Vicodin – much more than he should have been – and take it away from him. They'd essentially be hitting the reset button, undoing the last twenty-four hours as though nothing had happened… even though it clearly had.

Trying to be honest with himself, House understood that this option was probably the better one. She'd be in control once more, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with the truth of the second option (if she gave the pills back to him), that she no longer cared enough about his wellbeing to put the effort into controlling his drug use.

Yeah, he _definitely_ preferred the first option.

But then, he wasn't sure if Cuddy understood that – or cared. Giving her the pills, the gesture of it, was admittedly obtuse, perhaps even a little lame. And if she thought that he wanted her to back off, if she thought that giving her the bottle was an attempt at doing that, then he was screwed. He understood that much.

However, she must have known what he wanted, must have had some inkling of an idea, because she simply nodded her head in a grave manner. "Okay, House," she told him in understanding. "I'll count them." Which almost made him feel grateful until she said, "But not right now. In the morning, maybe. It's too early, and we should try and sleep while we can."

His heart sunk at the thought of having to wait to see what the results of this little test were. When he'd originally tossed her the pills, he'd envisioned her counting out the pills right then and there and deciding _now_ what she wanted to do with him. That she _wasn't_ doing that made him ill at ease, because it meant that he would have to go to sleep _again_ unsure as to where they stood with one another.

But it seemed unlikely that he'd get an answer now.

Staying exactly as he was, he made no move to crawl back under the covers.

"Oh, stop pouting," she dismissed, getting back into her side of the bed. "Just because you've realized the chances of you getting the Vicodin back are slim to none doesn't mean –"

His eyes widened in surprise, and he couldn't help but interrupt by asking, "You're gonna take it away from me?"

She shrugged like it was no big deal.

… Maybe it wasn't to her.

"I though you'd be better off without me interfering in your life," she confessed with an honesty so stark it made his stomach cramp.

He wasn't sure what it was about her comment that made him feel so horrible, to be honest. But then he considered what it would have meant if Cuddy had kept on believing that he was better off without her help, and he realized that she would have left him all alone.

She would have left him, just as Wilson had, to deal with everything that had happened on his own.

Although House had been nearly convinced that he could handle such a task when he was in the hospital, he felt as though nothing could be further from the truth. He was in pain – a lot of it; his thigh hurt; his head hurt. Guilt and regret and waves of unimaginable sadness and anger were the only emotions he felt familiar with at this point. And even if he really could watch after himself, he wasn't so sure that he could trust himself to do so.

No.

He'd been contemplating hurting himself before Cuddy woke up.

He _would _have hurt himself if she hadn't woken up, he mentally corrected.

And he knew then that he really didn't want to be alone even if he could physically handle the tasks necessary to perform in order to live.

That Cuddy was willing, thanks in part to his own actions, to believe otherwise… _terrified_ him.

The thought was promptly pushed aside as she spoke gravely, "But if you've taken as many Vicodin as I think you have, then I guess I was wrong."

Her words made him feel a little better; as bad as it to know that he… _needed_ her help, it wasn't quite so bad knowing that she _would_ help him.

Slightly bolstered by what she'd said, House finally moved back up to the head of the bed and got underneath the covers. Lying there in silence, he contemplated sleeping only to find that part of him felt like he shouldn't; his eyes closed but his mind still racing, House couldn't help but feel like there was more to be said. What that was exactly he didn't know, so he settled for asking, "Still mad?"

Cuddy rolled onto her side, so she could look at him. His eyes were still closed, but he could feel her gaze on him anyway, and he instinctively knew she was trying to get a better look at him. And maybe it was because she couldn't gauge a reaction on him that made her answer so vague. "At you?"

Her probable attempt at hedging didn't work… for long anyway. Because he was at first curious, asking, "Are you mad at anyone else?" But then he realized that he didn't particularly give a crap if she were, which made him quickly backtrack. "Nevermind. That question makes it sound as though I care what the answer is. My bad."

He heard a soft snort escape her, and he opened his eyes just in time to see the small smirk playing on her lips. "_Yes_," he told her, drawing the word out for a couple seconds. "Mad at me."

She shrugged a little. "No," she said, but her voice sounded weaker than he'd hoped, casting doubt on her answer.

"_Very_ convincing there."

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy defended, "I'm trying, all right?" She shifted on the bed some more, the mattress dipping and shaking as she did so. "House… I'm not… _angry_. I am…" Her voice trailed off, and looking at her carefully, he could tell that she was thinking what she should say. "I'm not mad. I just… I need a little time. To accept that you know what I know and… I guess to get over it."

Later on, when he had the proper amount of time to reflect on her words, he would wonder if she'd been telling the truth, the openness of the admittance something he would find suspicious. _Later on_, he'd wonder why, if she were telling the truth, she'd been honest at all.

But in the moment, he was neither suspicious nor impressed by her answer. Instead, he knitted his brows together out of confusion. "That doesn't really make sense."

She groaned in frustration. Trying to explain her position a little further, she clarified, "What I mean is I'm not angry. You apologized, and –"

Acid churned in his stomach as he realized what it was that she was saying. "You heard that?" He swallowed back the bile collecting in the back of his throat. "You were awake?"

Almost sensing his discomfort, she shrugged him off. "Sort of, yeah. And I appreciate the apology," she smoothed over quickly, placing a cool hand on his bare forearm. "I just need more than a few hours to process everything that's happened." Her grip on him tightening a little, she repeated, "But I'm not _mad_."

There was no denying that it wasn't exactly the answer he'd hoped for. He'd _wanted_ to hear that she wasn't angry with him at all. He'd wanted the sort of flat out denial that would give him the peace of mind he needed in order to sleep.

But House supposed that that had been naïve of him at best, selfish at worst, and after everything he'd put everyone else through, he didn't think that he deserved _anyone's_ forgiveness.

And it was that thought that reminded him of all the times he'd been in this position with Wilson. There'd been many times – _too_ many times – where House had done something wrong, wanted forgiveness, and operated almost under an _assumption_ that his friend would always do just that.

That obviously wasn't the case though.

And that thought permanently planted into his mind, he had to know what Cuddy would do. "If you were Wilson," he asked carefully, his throat feeling parched as the words left him. "Would you have done the same thing?"

She looked at him confused. "You mean if I'd been the one dating Amber?"

He didn't answer her question; he _couldn't_ answer her question, because his mind, of its own volition, had completely twisted her words around. And now, his only thought was that of Cuddy and Amber.

Together.

Sweaty, naked bodies pressed together, breasts –

"House?"

Just as quickly as it had come, the image was gone; she'd ruined it. His eyes glazed over, he had to shake himself a little so he could think long enough to respond. "Huh?" Clearing his throat, he explained, "Sorry, I was just picturing you and Amber dating."

Her eyes narrowed on him. "You mean you were thinking about the two of us having sex."

"Yup."

"Great," she said dryly. "And on that note, I'm going to bed."

"No," he whined loudly. "You haven't answered my question."

She threw his words right back at him. "Well, you didn't answer _mine_."

At that moment, House couldn't begin to describe just how much he hated her need to have everything spelled out for her. Rolling his eyes, not that his irritation was all that visible in the dim light, he said, "_Yes_. If you'd been the one dating Amber."

"Oh," she replied quietly. After a second, Cuddy added, "Well, I think I would be thrilled; I didn't exactly like her, and frankly, I don't miss hearing her whine about you."

He smirked. "That's cold."

This time she was the one to roll her eyes. "I feel terrible for Wilson," she hastily replied. "But I wasn't… a fan of hers."

"Fine then. If you'd been dating someone and cared about him as much as Wilson cared about the Bitch," House corrected.

She nodded her head almost imperceptibly. "Oh. All right…"

But that was all she said, the room filling with an awkward, anticipatory silence once more. He didn't know if that was because she didn't know how to answer the question or if it was because the answer was one he wouldn't like.

Somehow he suspected it was the latter.

After all, if his luck held consistent in any way, her lack of response had to be because she knew what her answer was, knew that she would have to tell him that she would be mad as well, and knew that that would…

He didn't want to use the word "upset" to finish the thought. That made him sound like a sniveling, sensitive five-year-old who'd just destroyed his favorite toy truck. But "sad," "angry," and every other adjective felt wrong as well, felt _wronger_ actually, so he settled for upset.

Yes, if she weren't saying anything, it was more likely because she was afraid of upsetting him than anything else.

"I guess I got my answer," he said glumly.

Defeated and depressed House began to roll over, not feeling like looking at her any longer. But she stopped him almost as quickly as he started to move, her hand clutching at the back of his shirt. Gently she urged, "Stop."

His response was an irritable "No."

So she tightened her grip on him. "House, I didn't mean –"

"We both know what you meant," he interrupted hotly.

"_No_. You don't." Her voice was cold and hard. "You know, if I didn't actually know you were smart, I might think you were a complete _idiot_."

Truth be told, House had half a mind to respond with something equally cutting and insulting. But he knew that if he did, she wouldn't ever give him an answer to his question. And _that_ would be more punishing to him than any response ever could.

So he kept his mouth shut and listened to her sigh. Obviously irritated by him, Cuddy continued, "You asked me what I would do if I loved someone _that_ much. But the truth is…"

Her voice trailed off, the last word shakily uttered, and that was all House needed to pique his curiosity. As he rolled back over to look at her, he heard her say, "Well, I guess it's like you said: I haven't had sex, much less an _actual_ relationship, in… _years_." Throwing her hands in the air, she admitted, "I barely remember what it's like to have a man on top of –"

"Oh, _that's_ hot," House interjected.

Not that she paid any attention to the comment, instead choosing to talk over him. "Me, much less what it's like to be in a _real_ relationship. I didn't answer your question right away, because I was trying to remember what it felt like to _have_ that – romantic love – in my life," she explained bitterly, letting her irritation over having to make such an explanation bleed through each and every word.

Of course, it didn't have the effect on him that she clearly wanted; he wouldn't let it. Instead of being contrite, he chastised her, "Now, you just sound pathetic." His mood lightening a little, he added, "Besides, you remember what it's like; there was that guy you practically _married_ in Michigan." Cuddy let out a non-committal sound, the motion behind it one he couldn't quite discern. "What was his name again? Stewart?"

"Not even close. His name was Bryan. With a y," she replied testily.

House felt smug as memories of the jackass she'd dated all those years ago flooded his consciousness. "Ah, yes, _Bryan_. Whatever happened to him anyway?"

The question was a pointless one, as he already knew the answer, but nevertheless, he wanted to hear Cuddy say it.

Which she did. "He wanted to get married and have children… settle down." Her brow furrowing in confusion and maybe a little dismay for her own actions, she hesitantly explained, "I wanted to have sex with you."

He smirked into the well-worn cotton of his pillowcase. "You _did_ have sex with me," he corrected.

She agreed in a very dry voice, "Yes, I did." And after a second's pause, she said, "I think you have your answer."

"Oh, you mean you'll ruin any chance of happiness you might have before I can do it?" Try as he might to _not_ make it sound that way, there _was_ something damning about his words, and looking at the way Cuddy seemed to deflate at the question, House knew that she understood that as well.

"Exactly," she told him, her voice gravelly and low.

His own reply wasn't quite so serious. "Good to know."

"Yeah."

She didn't sound as sure as he was, and he could understand that. Because as comforting as it was for _him_ to know that he wasn't the only screwed up one in the friendship, he realized that, for her, it probably meant something a lot more depressing – that she'd probably never have the kind of happiness she seemed so desperately in search of.

And knowing that, he had to ask, "You regret it?"

She looked at him confused. "What – you mean do I regret dumping someone who was willing to give me twenty years ago all the things I want now in order to sleep with _you_?" There was only a touch of bitterness in her words, only the slightest bit of disdain, which he took to be aimed directly at him and her disgust _for_ him.

And he could only believe that that meant she hadn't had a lot of time to think about the irony of the situation. All of the Bryan's she could have possibly married, could have had children with – it hadn't hit her yet. Or if it had, she'd quickly forced herself to _not_ dwell on the matter.

Either way, he couldn't help but think that part of her regretted it or would regret it. "Uh huh," he said.

She shook her head immediately. "No."

Cuddy didn't elaborate, and he supposed that he didn't want her to. In his mind, House reasoned that she was probably happier to be without that tool of a boyfriend for the simple fact that he _had_ been a tool. House didn't particularly care if he were right or wrong about that; he liked his theory enough to not care all that much about what the truth of the matter was.

But bringing up the past, dancing around the one time he'd slept with Cuddy, made him wonder about something else. Almost out of the blue, he asked, "You ever imagine you'd be in my bed again?"

At first she didn't answer, perhaps hoping that he would drop the subject if she simply stayed silent. But surely, she knew that _that_ would never happen, and wishful thinking giving way to realism, she replied nonchalantly, "Yes… just not like this."

And _that_ made his head spin.

The implication that she'd thought about having sex with him again…

"Oh," he drawled out slowly before practically begging, "_Please_ tell me more."

"No," she replied quickly.

"You never know… maybe I'll take pity on you and give you the opportunity to use your overgrown claws and scratch a notch in your bed post for the first time this decade…"

It was the worst come on ever, bound to fail as he could already see, even in the dim light, the mirth dancing in her light irises.

So he went with it. "Aw, come on… I know we're not drunk this time 'round, but I'm high _and _brain damaged. You have sex with me now, there's _at least_ a 75% chance that I won't remember it."

"Unfortunately, there wouldn't be anything to stop _me_ from remembering it," Cuddy pointed out.

"Well, that's probably a good thing," he explained lightly. "When's the next time you're going to have sex? 2020? _Maybe_? You're going to need to some fantasy material for masturbation…"

"Good night, House," she said sweetly, almost as though she weren't blatantly rejecting him, as she rolled away from him once more.

"Night, Cuddy."

He had no intention of having sex anyway, probably couldn't even if he wanted to, and frankly, the gentle lull of the Vicodin and overall pleasantness of both of their moods was too nice to want to break it up with anything that might jeopardize his temporary relief from the pain or from his bad behavior.

The drugs tugging him into slumber, House had the sickening feeling that none of it would last.

_End (11/15)_


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta for her help. And even more thanks to Queen S of Randomness 016, i luv ewansmile, passionfornight, Jane Q. Doe, jwhite2199, DoctorLisaCuddy, and yoleah for leaving reviews and encouraging me to keep going. I appreciate it so much.

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Twelve: No Winners  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_According to [the theory of plate tectonics], the Earth's crust is made up of about a dozen plates on which the continents and oceans rest. The plates are continually shifting because the surface beneath them – the hot, soft mantle – moving slowly like a conveyor belt, driven by heat and other forces at work in the Earth's core… The Earth's tectonic plates can move apart, collide, or slide past each other… When tectonic plates meet, the force causes mountains to rise and deep trenches to form." -- University of Delaware College of Marine Studies and Sea Grant College Program's "Plate Tectonics"_

Wilson awoke to the piercing sound of the doorbell, the noise jarring when compared to the silence he'd become begrudgingly accustomed to. He hadn't gotten completely drunk last night and in the early morning, instead preferring to fall into an uneasy sleep on the couch. But somehow his head still managed to pound as Cuddy's doorbell chimed loudly once more.

To be honest, Wilson had half a mind to ignore it. Last time he'd answered the door it had been Cuddy herself, and that conversation had left him with several questions to consider and a heart heavier than he'd thought imaginable. And though he doubted that she'd come back, her little tiff with House apparently over, Wilson couldn't help but worry that talking to another human being was the last thing he needed right now.

But then part of him started to think that he'd been making poor choices for himself for years now – allowing House to run his life, answering Cuddy's door the other day, pretending that the alcohol was of any use to him, etc. And that _long_ list of errors on his part made Wilson think that maybe the smart thing to do would be to do the opposite of whatever his first instincts were. Which meant that he should get off his ass and open the door, he realized begrudgingly.

Running a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, he sighed loudly at the thought, secretly hoping that the person ringing the doorbell would go away before he had a chance to answer the door. As much as he understood his decisions in the recent past had all been mistakes, he was hesitant to do anything about it.

Standing up, he supposed it was like House said: people didn't change. They didn't want to, too afraid of what their new life would be like in order to make it any better. Or at least, Wilson mentally corrected, too terrified by how hard the change would be in order to actually follow through with it, because that was what was making _him_ feel nervous right now. The idea that by answering the door, he could be opening himself up to _more_ pain terrified him, to be quite honest. And that meant that, despite knowing this was what he _had_ to do, he couldn't help but timidly approach the door.

His hand practically shaking as he gripped the brass handle, he didn't even consider looking through the peephole before yanking the door open; frankly, he was a little too obsessed over the idea that House might have been right about something – or rather that _he_ might be proving House right – to care about that.

Of course it didn't matter in the end, Wilson's discomfort immediately eased at the sight of Cameron's long blonde hair.

She, however, seemed to feel differently.

One of her eyebrows raised slightly, she said in confusion, "You're not Cuddy."

"She's letting me stay here," he explained dutifully, immediately, her surprise at his overall presence forcing him to speak.

Not that that really helped, because she continued to look at him in shock, her mouth slightly hanging open. So he hurriedly added, "She's not here… not living here at the moment anyway." He tried not to sound bitter about that, knowing that it wouldn't sound right, but somehow his voice managed to betray him nonetheless.

"Cuddy's just… letting you stay here," she replied in a dazedly skeptical tone.

Feeling irritation rise within him, Wilson snapped, "She's staying at House's apartment. You can find her _there_."

Admittedly he was being rude, curt in a way that could only be hurtful. But he had no interest in explaining what he was doing, in reliving the last few weeks in excruciating detail.

His hand still on the knob, he began to close the door in her face. If he were really turning into House, Wilson thought bitterly, he might as well go for broke.

But Cameron, having dealt with House for years, wasn't willing to roll over and die. Instead she quickly put her hands out in front of her, stopping the door in its tracks. "That's it?" Her voice was annoyingly annoyed, and unfortunately for him, she didn't stop there. "You tell me that and slam the door in my face?"

He at least had the good social manners to look slightly embarrassed.

Knowing that his reason was going to sound _so_ lame, he reluctantly admitted, "I don't want to talk about it."

She nodded her head a little in response. "That's… understandable," she said adamantly. "But I wasn't going to force you to talk about it if you didn't want to." Her gaze softening, Cameron reminded him, "I know how horrible that is, how… _oppressive_ everyone's concern can be."

Her words forced him to remember that she too had been through something similar, that although she never talked about it, at least not to _him_, she _too_ had lost someone she loved. And that thought in his mind, he couldn't help but ask suddenly, "Did moving help you?"

"I don't regret it," Cameron replied. "I've learned a lot from House, and I met Chase." She shrugged. "I'm not upset by the way things turned out for me."

Wilson thought her words sounded both reassuring and disapproving at the same time. An odd combination to be sure, it was almost as though she wanted to admit that she was content with her choice but was also afraid that he might get inspiration from it.

But before he had a chance to call her on it, she said in an honest tone, "Look… I ran away from anything I thought had to do with my husband's memory."

"But you don't think I should do the same," he deduced.

She shook her head. "You can run, but it doesn't make things better. It just makes you lonely."

"Half the time, I think I'd rather _be_ alone," Wilson admitted.

He hadn't really put that sentiment into words before now, but he recognized the truth in it at that moment; part of him really _didn't_ want company. And it was kind of odd that he should feel that way, considering he'd been so… _fixated_ with Cuddy's decision to stay with House, because it meant one thing and one thing only:

He'd been so upset over the fact that he was alone that he hadn't noticed just how much he might enjoy that.

"You don't want to be alone, Wilson," Cameron disagreed, cutting across his thoughts easily. "You don't want to abandon everything and everyone you have here to –"

"It'd be worth it if it meant I'd be able to get away from House," he snarled, his anger pushing through to the surface.

Taking a step closer to him, she said in a gentle tone, "No one is saying that you have to be friends with him again. But clearly he means something to you if you're willing to do anything you can to get away from him."

Wilson felt intuitively that there was some flaw in that logic, but before he even had a chance to name what it was, Cameron kept talking. "And if you've really had enough of him… running your life, you can't let yourself make any more decisions based on him."

He sidestepped her point. "Maybe I want to get away from Amber too."

"You… can't," she said in a matter of fact tone, her eyes sad and lips frowning. "You can move. You can not go to the places you both used to love going to. You can… avoid everything that reminds you of her. But you can't ever really get away from her. That's just not how it works."

There was something about the way she was talking, about the way her voice was tightly controlled with only the slightest hint of sadness spilling out over the edges, that reminded him once more of what she'd been through. She too, he reiterated to himself, had lost someone she loved. And that meant that there was no denying what she was saying, because she had been through it before.

She _knew_ that there was no escaping, no avoiding what had happened.

And maybe on some level Wilson knew it as well. Because as much as he might like to think that Amber was the first person he'd lost, it wasn't entirely the truth, because…

There had been Danny as well.

Of course, the situation was different. Amber was definitely… dead, where as his brother might still be roaming the streets somewhere.

Lost.

Completely submerged in the creation of his own mind, Danny could very well be gone if still _here_ in a sense. And from that experience, Wilson had learned exactly what Cameron was trying to tell him: you couldn't escape something that your own mind traitorously refused to forget. There was only the unwanted but unavoidable option of trying to… _move_ _on_.

Which really didn't seem like the right phrase for what he was being required to do. "Move on" – it sounded so… simple and easy, and worse still, it made Amber's death sound like something that wasn't all that heartbreaking.

And _that_ couldn't have been further from the truth.

"You know I'm right," Cameron interrupted, perhaps sensing that he was realizing the same thing at that moment.

Nodding his head once, Wilson asked, his throat dry, "What do I do?"

She looked at him pointedly. "You know what to do. You… go back to _your_ apartment. You go back to work, see your patients. You do what you did before."

He let her words wash over him, each and every syllable settling into his consciousness slowly. The seconds ticking by, he worked hard to process what it was she was advising him to do. But the more he thought about it, the more Wilson felt like she was speaking Cantonese.

"I don't think I can do that," he told her mournfully. "Go back to the way things were… I can't do that."

Cameron looked at him silently for a minute, almost as though she were trying to decide what to tell him. And then she admitted in the same tone he had just used, "Yes, you can. You think you can't, and then you actually try to do it, and… you realize just how easy it is to… continue on."

He shook his head. "No."

"Yes," she insisted. "You _can_ adjust to Amber being gone. You _have_ to at some point," she pointed out. "All I'm saying is that… running away doesn't make doing that any easier."

Maybe that made sense. Maybe that was something that he could believe in, he thought with a mental shrug. It was hard to know for sure, hard to see past the indifference and the certainty that she was wrong that he wore as protection.

And it was even harder to accept her suggestions when he considered – _truly_ considered – the ramifications of doing so. Because if he were to do what she was telling him to do, he would have to move back into that tomb of an apartment; he'd have to go back to work and deal with House – and deal with the patients that constantly seemed to _need_ something from him.

"I'm _not_ ready for that," he said suddenly, fear and frustration welling up inside of him. "I can't handle that at the moment. The patients…" He sighed. "I don't think seeing patients minutes away from death is going to help me move on from Amber."

"Well…" Cameron stopped talking, her voice immediately quieting as she looked down at the file in her hand. Which, until now, he hadn't noticed _at all_, his focus on getting rid of her to the exclusion of everything else.

Lamely he had to ask at that moment, "What's that?"

She shifted a little on her feet, almost as though she didn't want to tell him. But she must have pushed her concern about it to the side, because within seconds, she was explaining, "It's a case I got in the E.R. A ten year old girl came in with –"

Eager to get to the point, Wilson couldn't help but interrupt, "Then why are you here?"

"We've ruled out every medical possibility that I can think of, and she's still sick. So Foreman –"

"Wants the case," he finished.

"Right. But considering he killed his last patient, Cuddy has had him in clinic duty for nearly a month."

He looked at her knowingly. "So you came here hoping she'd sign off on it." She nodded her head but said nothing.

Truth be told, Wilson wasn't sure what came over him then. He didn't know if it were her silence at that moment or her words finally winning him over. Maybe it was the slightest possibility of taking something from House, of bypassing Cuddy in the same way she had bypassed Wilson over that made him do it. Whatever it was, he nonetheless spoke up, "Give me the case. I'll oversee it."

Cameron looked at him in half-suspicion, half-confusion. "Why?"

"You said it yourself. I need to get back to work." The explanation came out so easy that it almost sounded true. "I don't want to work with cancer patients. Foreman's going to need someone else to hide his involvement in this anyway," he pointed out. "Even if you're the one who brings it to Cuddy, she's not going to be fooled by a change in messenger."

"So you just want me to tell her that _you're_ taking the case," she said dryly.

"Yes."

He sounded confident, which was almost ironic, considering he couldn't have felt more differently. Honestly, part of him felt that what he was suggesting was nothing short of madness. Aside from Amber, aside from House and Cuddy and all of the other personal factors involved, there was one very important fact:

Wilson hadn't practiced this kind of medicine in _years_.

Sure, there'd been a few times over the last decade or so where he'd given House advice or somehow found himself caught in the middle of a diagnosing session. But for the most part… he'd spent his years as a doctor treating patients with known, already diagnosed illnesses.

In some ways, that had been one of the things he'd originally _liked_ about oncology; the diagnosis was almost a foregone conclusion, the bulk of the work being keeping patients comfortable while treating them.

It wasn't unlike the earliest Disney movies that he'd watched as a kid, he'd decided years ago. Nowadays villains were rarely villainous in the films the pediatric cancer patients watched, but when _he_ was a kid, there was _no_ doubt who was the monster; it was always the ugly witch who'd been spited for some ridiculous reason. And being an oncologist was sort of like that: you didn't necessarily know what made the monster come, but you _knew_ who the monster was, and you knew that you had to slay it.

What House did regularly, on the other hand… was decidedly _not_ like that. There was no clear bad guy, no readily identifiable disease or condition that you could treat. The work was more intensive on the front end, whereas Wilson's focused on the latter – on the care of the patient.

And all in all, the two lines of work were different enough that he should have been completely uninterested in helping Foreman with a case.

But he wasn't.

And because of that, he was grateful when Cameron, with a shrug of her shoulders, murmured, "All right."

"Good."

"I'll talk to Cuddy, but in the meantime…" Quieting for a moment, she hesitated to finish the rest of the thought. But eventually she added, "You should sober up and –"

"I'm not drunk," he said defensively.

And it was the truth, at that moment anyway. He might have been drinking pretty regularly the last month or so, but he wasn't drunk right this second.

"I can smell it on you."

At that, he couldn't help but smile sheepishly, the last shower he'd taken something of a distant memory. "I'll be fine."

There was something in his voice that said she shouldn't push it, despite the warmth and kindness and overall dismissive tone in it. "Well, at least shower," she replied.

Nodding his head emphatically, he couldn't help but think that that was a good idea. The sudden change in his life another thing he hadn't anticipated, Wilson could only believe that he needed that extra bit of time to make sure he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life.

* * *

The last time Lisa Cuddy had slept until ten am was a time she no longer remembered. Perhaps there had been a time or two in college, but she didn't really know anymore. Years of running a hospital, more years as a doctor and training to be a doctor, it all made for lots of early mornings and late nights.

But today that would change.

Exhausted from her fight and subsequent détente with House, she slept soundly until the pounding on the front door woke her up. The noise was so jarring that she shot up in bed at the thump of the third knock.

Her breathing was uneven, a confused "Wha" escaping her of its own volition. Her hair was a tangled mess, dark curls pulling in every direction and falling in front of her bleary eyes. Even without a mirror, she could tell she looked like crap; she certainly _felt_ that way. She wasn't used to the sleeping schedule that seemed appropriate only for the mother of a newborn baby.

But a quick glance at House – undoubtedly the infant in this scenario – told her that he wasn't suffering in quite the same way. He was wide awake, lying next to her with his eyes trained on the ceiling. Which meant that he'd been awake when the person at the door had started to knock.

"You couldn't answer the door," she snapped, exhaustion-induced irritation rearing its ugly head.

Not giving him a chance to respond, Cuddy dragged herself out of the bed. The front door was still being practically pounded on, and frankly, she was too concerned with making _that_ stop to care what House was doing (which as it turned out was nothing).

But of course, stopping the insistent person at his door was easier said than done. The second Cuddy stood up, she understood she couldn't answer the door like _this_. Her hair was a mess, and she'd clearly _just_ woken up, but more importantly, she was wearing pajama pants and a tank top too sheer to offer her any coverage. And if she were to open the door dressed as she was, Cuddy had no doubt that the person – whoever it was – on the other side would get the wrong impression.

Then again, that assumed they would be able to get past the fact that you could practically see every detail of her nipples right now.

Considering she could practically _feel_ House's gaze trained on that area of her body, she thought it was unlikely. She scowled, muttering, "You're disgusting," as she tried to find something to cover up with. Her eyes quickly moving around the room, the first thing she saw was House's bathrobe, and she easily decided that it was good enough.

Later on she would think that perhaps if she'd considered her choice of a cover up a little more, she would have grabbed something else. But as it happened, Cuddy didn't think about that at all – not until she'd already opened the door and saw Cameron looking at her in shock anyway. Because it was at that moment, at the exact second surprise, judgment, and assumption flitted through Cameron's gaze that Cuddy realized just how badly she'd just screwed up.

Her hands instinctively pulling the robe together, she felt shame wash through her hotly. Regardless of the fact that she hadn't done anything with House, Cuddy knew that that wouldn't really matter in the end; what this looked like was just as important as what it was. And worst of all was her inherent understanding that she could hardly say, "Don't worry; I didn't sleep with House," because, even in her own head, that made her sound guilty as charged.

So she had no choice but to stay quiet until Cameron said awkwardly, "I guess Wilson was right. You are staying here."

Cuddy shrugged it off as though her choice to watch after House wasn't _completely_ improper. "He obviously couldn't be left alone. And considering everyone in the hospital hates him…"

But her reasoning apparently didn't sit well with Cameron. "You could have gone outside of the hospital," she suggested in a way that was supposed to sound non-judgmental.

Cuddy had to concede that point. Denying that there was some other option would only make her seem… blinded by her alleged feelings for House. Which meant she had no other choice than to nod her head in agreement. "I could have done that, yes." Cocking her head to the slide, she added, "Unfortunately, we both know how… big of an ass he is and how _incredibly_ likely it would be for him to intimidate and irritate anyone hired to take care of him."

"That's true," Cameron replied dryly.

"As much as I'd rather be anywhere else but here, I decided to skip the weeks of finding replacements for House and hours of phone calls to my office complaining about whatever the hell he did that day."

Cuddy thought it sounded reasonable; the way she calmly spoke, it really did sound like she'd thought her decision through and had come to a rational conclusion as opposed to taking one look at House's pale, weak form and feeling as though he would be lost forever if she didn't hold onto him tightly.

Trying not to think about _that_, she changed the topic of conversation. "I assume, though, that you're not here to chat about a choice I made a month ago."

Cameron gave her a weak smile. "You're right... I didn't come here for that." Holding a file out for Cuddy to take, she continued, "I got a case in the E.R. and –"

"Foreman put you up to this," Cuddy quickly deduced, opening the blue folder in her hands nonetheless.

"Yes, he did," she said matter of factly.

And even though Cuddy kept skimming through the file for the symptoms the patient was presenting, she shook her head. Given the way Foreman's last case had gone, she didn't think that it really mattered what was wrong the patient; the best course of action seemed to be transferring her to a hospital with a _real_ diagnostics team. "Your patient's stable, so you can transfer her to –"

"You won't let Foreman take the case, even though he's _run_ his own diagnostics department?" Cameron looked at her in disbelief, in a way that hardly made Cuddy want to change her mind.

She calmly closed the file and handed it back to Cameron. "I let him take a case last month, and he lied – failed to keep me informed about the true nature of the patient's condition."

Her reasoning, however, didn't seem to be enough for the younger woman. "House does that all the time."

Cuddy rolled her eyes dismissively. "Yes, he does, but for the most part… I trust his judgment. And for all the times I don't, I…" She shrugged, searching for a way to explain just how their work relationship worked.

Truthfully, she didn't think there _was_ an adequate way to do that; for the most part, she and House had arrived at a silent conclusion – that he could practice medicine in a way that only he knew how to do while still respecting some ill-formed boundaries of hers. There were no lines in the sand really, no text in his contract that said he could only do X, Y, and Z.

It really was just a quiet understanding, one arrived of its own volition. And it was odd that it should be that way, that they should be able to navigate such a tenuous and stressful relationship by feeling about for the limits; his hatred for the irrational, her hatred for things out of her control – they should have had definite, rationally based rules.

But they didn't.

And since that part of their relationship operated in that way, Cuddy thought it was impossible to have that kind of trust with anyone else.

Licking her dry lips a little, she tried to explain it to Cameron. "We have an understanding. And when we don't agree on what that is exactly… I have my ways of dealing with that."

It was so incredibly vague that she couldn't deny that her response was probably completely unsatisfactory. "Cameron, what it comes down to at this moment is that… I'm _here_. I'm not at the hospital, and that means I can't look over his shoulder. I don't have that trust in him, and I can't gain that overnight. You need to transfer –"

"What if I got someone to oversee the case – someone you do trust?"

The question was clearly meant to bait her, and though she was loathe to do it, Cuddy had to ask, "Who?"

"Wilson."

Her reaction was to think that the name suggested shouldn't have surprised her. Given that everything as of late seemed to work against her, against them _all_, it should only seem _natural_ that this simple work prospect should also be complicated by their train wreck web of relationships.

The word hanging heavily in the air, it was all Cuddy could do to bite back a sigh. And perhaps Cameron sensed that complete lack of resolve, sensed Cuddy's overall exasperation, because she seized the moment. "I got the impression, when I talked to him earlier, that things were tense between the two of you. But you've known him for _years_, and obviously you trust his medical opinion if he's a department head."

The sigh finally escaped.

"Wilson overseeing Foreman," Cuddy said slowly, mulling the concept over.

"Weirder things have happened in the hospital."

Just how true that was Cuddy didn't want to know. And in any case, it didn't exactly remove any of the discomfort she felt towards the situation Cameron was pitching. "I don't know. Wilson hasn't been… himself lately."

"He's grieving," Cameron explained, sounding slightly annoyed at Cuddy. "The woman he loves is _dead_."

"I understand that. But that doesn't fill me with a lot of confidence in terms of his – "

"A case could be exactly what he –"

Cameron didn't get a chance to finish the thought.

"There's a case?"

Both women turned to look down the hallway to where House was standing. The question one Cuddy had hoped she wouldn't have to hear him ask, his voice strained with the clear desire to sound calm, her stomach dropped to her knees in guilt. This was truly one of the last things she'd ever wanted him to walk in on, and Cuddy couldn't help but wish that she'd shoved Cameron back out the door the second she'd opened it up.

And when Cuddy, confused and nervous, stole a glance at Cameron, Cuddy _really_ wished she'd slammed the door in the other woman's face, because now Cameron looked completely convinced that House had been sleeping with Cuddy all along.

Of course, it wasn't hard to understand why the younger woman felt that way. Here Cuddy was wearing House's bathrobe, her bed head making it obvious that she'd just woken up. House was in his pajamas, his own hair equally mussed. And Cuddy knew that there was no arguing that she'd slept on the couch last night – as it was currently covered in the shopping bags she'd gotten only the previous evening.

Really, if she were an outsider, she too would have thought that they'd slept together.

So all in all, she was screwed on both ends, the totality of which made her unsure as to whom she should address first. House needed some sort of reassurance; that much was obviously clear. But she hesitated to lie and tell him that there was no case, to try and offer him some kind of ego stroke, because doing so would only make Cameron _more_ convinced that something was going on.

Before Cuddy had a chance to do anything, though, Cameron took the decisions out of her hands. Her eyes darting back and forth between her current boss and her former one, Cameron looked lost, disgusted, and confused. "Did you… are you two sleeping together?"

The question was completely inappropriate, one that Cuddy was ready to rebuke and harshly deny.

But House answered first.

Unfortunately.

A smirk on his face, he replied easily, "Yup."

If Cuddy were someone else, if she were someone simply looking in on this conversation, she thought she would have been curious to see what Cameron's reaction was. But seeing as how House was saying that he had been sleeping with her, Cuddy was too consumed with rage and betrayal to give it much thought.

Her gaze focused solely on House, she didn't care about Cameron at all.

Not even enough to realize that the hurt she was allowing House to see could also be seen by Cameron.

Frankly, it was by some sort of miracle that she didn't slap him right then and there or demand to know why he would _lie_ like that. Or maybe it wasn't a miracle with the latter, because Cuddy _knew_, she thought viciously, why he would lie about sleeping with her. The reason was so simple that she didn't even doubt that it was true; he lied…

Because he _could_.

Because he thought it would be _fun_ to embarrass her, to once _again_ spread a rumor about her that made her look like a complete idiot. Which she must have been, _truly_, if she'd thought – ever in her life – that he could respect her in some way. After all, it wasn't like he ever _had_ shown her respect, shown her that he could accept her authority over him.

He certainly hadn't accepted, much less appreciated, her presence in his apartment this past month.

And honestly, all of that taken into consideration, she thought she should have known that he would do something like this the first chance he had.

Anger roiling through, the need for revenge growing, Cuddy played the one card she had left. A sour smirk now on her face, she turned to face Cameron once more. "Fine," she told her breezily. "Tell Wilson and Foreman they're more than welcome to run the diagnostics department if they want it."

It didn't bother her – not in the _least_ – that the move was a childish one, because at this point, Cuddy didn't care.

At all.

If House wanted to be a little boy, willing to lash out at anyone and everyone in his way, she would lash right back at him. And considering the rumor he'd just started, she thought she was being rather magnanimous, what with sparing him a painful death and all.

One look at House told her, however, that he didn't agree. The betrayal she felt was mirrored in his eyes as well. And she was sure that if Cameron weren't here, he would have already been yelling at her, throwing _another_ fit, screaming "Get out" in the exact same manner he had nearly a month ago.

But as Cameron was here, they were, by some sort of miracle, staying silent, their only form of communication their heated glares toward one another. The air crackling with a dark energy around them, it couldn't have been lost to either of them that whatever tentative peace and friendship they'd found was breaking apart. At a rapid speed as well, the wrenching force between them making Cuddy wonder how they'd ever made it this long together – _alone_ – without any alcohol to subdue their tempers.

The question was one she didn't have time to think about though; at this point, Cameron clearly knew that something was wrong, that something had altered between House and Cuddy. Cameron's voice tentative, she spoke quietly, "Um… okay."

Neither House nor Cuddy said anything.

So Cameron continued. "I think… I'm going to go. Now. I'll let Wilson and Foreman know."

Gingerly she took a step away from Cuddy and backed out the front door slowly almost as though Cameron were afraid that one false move would result in decapitation. Which Cuddy thought would have been funny if it weren't quite so pathetic and simultaneously apropos.

As the younger woman skulked away, silence descended on House and Cuddy once more. They didn't dare speak to one another at that moment. Because, although she didn't know what House's motivation was, Cuddy's was that she knew, if they spoke right away, Cameron would overhear. And frankly, in Cuddy's estimation, Cameron already knew too much.

But as soon as the blonde was safely through the doorway, as soon as Cuddy unceremoniously slammed the door shut, all bets were off.

"You're letting _Foreman_ and _Wilson_ run _my_ department," House practically snarled, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"_Yeah_, I _am_," she snapped. If he wanted an apology – or an explanation – she was determined _not_ to give him one.

He didn't deserve it.

House disagreed.

"They're not _diagnosticians_. Foreman pushes papers around for you all day, and Wilson peddles around chemotherapy," he said, his voice a near shout. "They don't know what the _hell_ they're doing."

She shook her head, moving closer to him. "What did you want me to do, House? Shut down the entire department while you recover?" Hands on her hips, she couldn't deny that she was taunting him, purposely goading him. "Give _you_ the case, so you can try to prove to everyone that even _brain damaged_ you're a better doctor than everyone else?"

"I _am_ a better doctor," he corrected, his voice holding the slightest bit of insecurity. Which she liked, to be quite honest, because it meant that her words had hit a little too close to home for his liking. "Unlike _you_ – a woman who couldn't diagnose her way out of a paper bag."

She smirked, finally standing toe-to-toe with him. "To be honest, House, I _might_ have been willing to tell Cameron no to save your ego."

"My ego is –"

"But then you went and told her that we're _sleeping together_," she shouted over him, not giving him the chance to interrupt her.

He scoffed. "She thought we were having sex anyways. You know that, unless you're as oblivious about human beings as you are the human _body_."

Cuddy had to laugh; loudly and bitterly she_ laughed _at the insult that was _so_ ludicrous coming from the only person she knew who was so _completely_ unable to deal with any and _all_ relationships. "House…" She chuckled, beside herself in disbelief and anger. "If you had… _any_ idea about human beings, you would _not_ have told _my_ employee that I'm _sleeping_ with you."

It was then that she realized that saying those words out loud made her feel that much worse. Internalized it had hurt, had made her sick, but it wasn't until now, until the second she'd uttered what it was that he'd done, that she realized just how horrible and screwed up this entire situation was. Because with each syllable spoken came the knowledge that this wasn't going to be an isolated moment.

Cameron would tell someone. Even if she had an ounce of discretion in her, she would tell someone – Chase probably – because the inkling of a fight she'd witnessed was too interesting and bizarre not to tell someone about it.

And as soon as the rumor was one party removed from the actual conversation, it would spread like wild fire. Chase or whoever the lucky recipient of Cameron's loose lips would tell another person, and that person would whisper it to anyone and everyone who would listen.

Which meant that it would inevitably reach the ears of some asshole, disgruntled with Cuddy's reign over the hospital, who had been waiting for something like this to use against her. And that person would contact the board, and then…

And then who knew what would happen then?

The board would scrutinize all of her decisions over the past couple of years. They'd look at the fine the hospital had incurred, thanks to House, during the hospital's last unannounced inspection. They would look at the criminal charges against House (and her involvement in getting said charges dropped) and the one hundred million dollars she'd willingly given up to keep House employed. And from that…

They would decide that she had an improper affinity for him and fire at least one of them.

Which was really the last thing she wanted, despite the fact that she wanted to punch House in the face at present.

"You have _no_ idea what you've done," she told him darkly.

But he didn't seem concerned about his words at all. "Cameron's not going to tell anyone –"

"Oh, of _course_ she is!"

"No, she's _not_," he fought back loudly. "She wasn't going to say anything to anyone, because, unlike how _you_ put Wilson and Foreman in charge, _I_ was joking. And Cameron _knew_ that."

He was so angry by the time he finished speaking that the veins in his neck stood out, the tension inside of him completely visible for her to see. So much so that it gave her pause and made her consider whether or not it was good for him to even have this conversation. Taking in his appearance further, however, answered the question for her; it definitely _wasn't_ good for him.

He was red and sweaty and stressed out, and even though part of her was _glad_ that he was probably going to be feeling like crap for the next couple of days, another part couldn't bear the idea of that. Try as she might to wish him dead, to be thrilled at the fact that he was feeling some amount of pain for all of the grief he was causing…

She couldn't.

Because as much as she didn't want to care…

She did.

The thought grounding her a little, Cuddy sighed and threw her hands in the air. Suddenly, she told him, "We're not having this conversation right now."

"Why? You finally realize I'm right?"

His sarcasm didn't give her pause as she pushed past him. As much as she might have wanted to fight him, as much as he clearly wanted her to, she knew that she couldn't do it right now – not when the price of a fight was likely to be his wellbeing.

Walking down the hallway, she said, "We're not talking about this anymore. I'm going to take a shower."

Her tone left no room for discussion, but he followed her anyway. The doorknob to the bathroom in her hands, she spun around to face him once more; she sure as hell wasn't going to let him follow her like a lost puppy dog any longer. "That means you go away," she told him snottily.

Not giving him a chance to respond, Cuddy easily slid into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. She made sure to turn and look the door behind her; God only knew she couldn't trust House to stay outside, to give her _any_ semblance of privacy. Although maybe that was fair, considering she'd watched him take every single bath he'd had since he'd gotten out of the hospital.

But whether it was deserved or not didn't matter, she supposed, because even a minute after she'd closed the door in his face, he hadn't barged in. He hadn't pounded on the door, yelled at her – he hadn't done anything actually.

Naturally, Cuddy couldn't believe that this was an act of kindness; after what he'd done minutes ago, she wasn't sure there _was_ any kindness in him. So she could only believe that he was biding his time, _waiting_ to do something.

Leaning against the door, she decided to give him a few more minutes to make his move. But all was quiet and stayed that way, so…

She was hesitant to admit that nothing was happening much less that nothing would happen.

However, the longer she waited for House to do something, the more urgent the need to soothe her tense muscles with hot water became. And so reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the door.

Yet she'd barely had a moment's peace in the shower before House found a way in. Her dark curls clinging wetly to her neck and shoulders, she supposed that she should have known that he had a key to get into the bathroom. Or maybe more to the point, she should have known that he would wait until she was _naked_ to make his move.

Granted, she doubted he would be so bold as to pull the shower curtain aside, so that he could yell at her while she was naked. But that was a small consolation; after all, the white shower curtain was sheer enough for _her_ to make out the plaid pattern of his pajama pants.

Who the hell knew what kind of details he could make out about _her_.

Growling in frustration, she curled her wet hands into fists at her side. Speaking loudly over the sound of the running water, Cuddy demanded to know, "What are you doing, House?"

"Sorry," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Need to pee."

"It can wait five minutes," she snapped. In her heart, she seriously doubted that he needed to go to the bathroom or that he needed to go so badly that he couldn't wait until she'd finished her shower; it seemed too convenient for his bladder to be tied to his need to irritate her.

Then again, he _always_ seemed to need to irritate her, so she supposed she shouldn't be shocked that his bladder eventually lent itself to that end.

"I can't wait," he responded in a casual tone, his blurred-through-the-curtain form uneasily moving towards the toilet.

More than ever now she wanted to hit him. She wanted to _kill_ him for never quite understanding the concept of personal space – at least not when it came to giving her any.

Angrily she navigated her body towards the back of the tub. On a better terrain, she would have stalked toward him, but given that she _was_ taking a shower, she didn't want to risk losing the opportunity to ream him by slipping and falling in the bathtub.

Her hand clasped around the white shower curtain that covered the back of the shower. Because of the overall open design, the tub needed two to stop water from going everywhere. And although she was sure he would have preferred she grab the one that stretched the length of the tub, the one that would let him see her completely naked, she instead yanked the one nestled against the half-wall that divided the shower from the toilet.

Pulling it viciously, she gave him a harsh glare. Not that he noticed; despite the fact that he was peeing, his head was cocked in her direction. And his line of sight was hovering around her chest area… though sadly for him, the half-wall covered her so that all he saw was her wet shoulders.

"Go. _Away_," she repeated empathically.

But he shook his head. "I'm peeing."

"_House_."

"What? You want me to walk away while I'm still pissing? You really want to have to clean up my trail of urine?"

"That would be a much better threat if I hadn't been doing that less than a month ago," Cuddy pointed out darkly.

Of course, House proceeded to ignore her, perhaps angered and embarrassed by being reminded of what she'd done for him. At least, she hoped that he was feeling the latter, hoped that he could somehow begin to understand and appreciate the magnitude of her sacrifice for him.

And it was then that she realized that she resented him.

She resented House.

Maybe not for the fact that he needed to be taken care of… but because even though she'd done all she could to make him better, to help him recover, he… didn't care.

At all.

There were moments when she thought he did. But right now, in this moment, Cuddy understood that if that were true, there wouldn't be quite so many fights between them. There wouldn't be the constant need for him to apologize to her. Because as screwed up as he was, he would have controlled himself if he'd valued her friendship.

But he didn't.

And since he didn't care about her at all, it had to be just… _so_ simple for him, so _easy_ to tell Cameron that they'd slept together. After all, for him, there was no downside to lying; he didn't care about Cuddy's friendship. He _certainly_ didn't care about the lie being spread around the hospital and to their bosses. Really, there was just no way for him to suffer in this.

And she resented him for it.

A lot.

There was no point in denying her feelings. God, it wasn't like he was going to _care_ that she felt that way. So, making a split-second decision, she spoke up, "I think what we need is to take a break."

She closed the curtain and turned away from him. Because as soon as the words had been uttered, she doubted, at least in some small part, that she meant them. Something about saying it aloud made her feel like… _maybe_ it wasn't the right thing to do.

But she'd already said it, and House wasn't saying anything in return. So Cuddy had to go with it. "I…" She swallowed hard and started over. "We have been… at each other's throats for weeks now. And as much as I know that that's part of what we do," she said, gesticulating with her hands as if to show to no one that she didn't really have the right terminology. "This is just too much. For both of us to take."

Licking her lips, she waited for House to say something.

But he didn't.

"I just think it would be good for us to… spend some time apart."

"Fine."

His voice was so quiet she'd barely been able to hear the reply, and though he was clearly trying to keep any and all emotion out of his tone, she could tell that he wasn't exactly a fan of the idea.

Obviously she doubted that his reticence had anything to do with _her_. At this point, she really didn't believe that he had any concern for her. On the other hand, he _always_ seemed to be hesitant to change anything in his life. And her leaving after spending a month with him _was_ a change.

A change that they both clearly were in dire need of.

"You won't be _alone_," she told him quickly, creating a plan as fast as she could. "I'll spend today and tomorrow interviewing candidates from hospice – have them assist you during the day. I'll stay here at night."

Bitterly House finally spoke more than one word. "If you don't want to be here, you don't have to _replace_ yourself with a baby sitter. I am a big boy."

Cuddy sighed, her hand dejectedly turning off the water. There was no point in taking a hot shower when this conversation was only bound to aggravate and upset them both more than they already were.

Pressing her forehead into the warm, tiled shower wall, she tried to kindly explain her reasoning. "You're still recovering, House. You can't –"

"Be left alone? Yeah, God forbid I be allowed to bathe _alone_," he said begrudgingly.

The comment infuriated her. "I think I can say the same right now to _you_," she pointed out furiously.

"You'll live."

"And so will _you_," she snapped, reaching outside the shower curtain with a hand to grab a towel. As she militantly wrapped the grey terrycloth around her body, she continued, "_You_ will live if you have another person helping you out instead of me."

"That's not the point," he argued.

Cuddy pushed the curtain aside. "Then what is the point?" she demanded to know.

He didn't answer.

And it was almost weird, she thought, how he seemed… _sheepish_ in a way. Or no, that wasn't the right way to describe his demeanor she decided. House, being an enormous ass, didn't know how to do sheepish; it wasn't in his vocabulary.

But he did seem… slightly embarrassed by whatever it was he was feeling. And since he didn't elaborate – hell, he didn't answer the question at all – she thought that he _must_ have been ashamed of whatever it was that was going on in that rat maze brain of his.

Unfortunately for him, she didn't have the patience to pursue the matter in a particularly kind manner. "_Well_?"

He looked at her meaningfully, but he didn't say anything.

Raising an eyebrow, Cuddy demanded to know, "Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there and hope that I know how to read your screwed up mind?"

"Do what you want, Cuddy," he snapped, turning around and heading towards the bathroom door.

"I will," she told him, her chin raised defiantly as he disappeared into the hallway.

_Finally_ alone in the bathroom, Cuddy stood there, droplets of water lazily cascading from her wet hair down along her collar bone. Pulling the towel around her body more tightly, she supposed that she'd just won the argument. He'd walked away after all, and House only did that when he won or when he knew that he had no chance of winning. And since he'd never argued any particular point, she didn't think that he could have retreated feeling victorious.

But then again, she was standing there, essentially being given all the permission in the world to do what she'd said she thought was best; he'd walked away, and she could start talking to nurses to stay with him and take care of him.

And yet…

She didn't feel victorious either.

How could she?

House believed, she knew, wholeheartedly that feelings were conditional, that her presence in his life _was_ conditional; no matter how hard she'd worked this past month to show him otherwise, by telling him that she needed a break…

She'd proven him right.

She'd reinforced the belief that all relationships had conditions and that he shouldn't waste his time with them.

Which meant that…

She might have won this particular argument.

But there were no winners here.

_End (12/15)_


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Notes: Thank you to TetraFish06, lhoma320, DoctorLisaCuddy, HouseBroken, ItsNevrLupus, jwhite2199, i luv ewansmile, and passionfornight for leaving me reviews. Writing these chapters is often a very lengthy and difficult process for me, and you all make it a little bit easier for me. So thank you so much for sticking around and reading and reviewing.

Also thank you to my beta for all of her help.

_Disclaimer: The show does not belong to me. _

**Edge of Chaos  
****Chapter Thirteen: Ah, But Underneath  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Chaotic oscillations are found in many dynamical systems of various origins. The behavior of such systems is characterized by instability and, as a result, limited predictability in time. Intuitively it would seem that chaos and synchronization are two mutually exclusive terms. Yet it has been shown that synchronization can be observed even in chaotic systems." – the Institute for Nonlinear Science, University of CA, San Diego_

It was five-thirty in the morning, and he was awake. In the two days since Cuddy had announced that she was going back to work, he hadn't slept at all. Not a second's worth of time spent being dead to the world, not a single z caught, he had been awake for two days. Which meant that it should have been easy to sleep now. But apparently, it wasn't, and instead of sleeping, House was lying in bed, listening to Cuddy prepare for her first day back at work.

Every now and then he would hear the soft snap of a bottle being opened or closed and the light thud of something being set on the edge of the sink. For the most part, though, there wasn't anything to listen to. Cuddy was being quiet, so quiet that even if he wanted to blame what she was doing for his insomnia, no one would believe him.

Certainly she was being a million times less intrusive than Wilson had been when he'd stayed here post-wife #3. And even then, House had managed to sleep pretty soundly through the night.

Immediately though, having stumbled upon a part of his past that seemed so distant, House's thoughts shifted. No longer did he think about sleeping or what Cuddy was doing; everything within him was focused on one simple fact: Wilson had stayed here only a couple years ago – if that – but everything – _everything_ – had changed since then.

House had a completely different team. Chase no longer eagerly performed every task asked of him, and Cameron no longer followed House around like a little puppy looking for a pat on the head. Foreman was still around, but Cuddy was acting like he could run a diagnostics team on his own… and maybe he could, because he _had_ run a team on his own before being essentially forced to return. Two years ago, Thirteen, Amber, Kutner, and Taub didn't exist in House's world, but now they were deeply entwined in it, inextricably part of his life.

As was Cuddy, House realized. When Wilson had been living with him, Cuddy had been part of House's life. However, she'd existed more on the periphery, a presence that was always lurking about but never so much so that he thought he could call her a friend.

Obviously that had changed…

Much to his dismay.

And maybe he could have handled her current place in his life if he didn't feel like it had come at the expense of his best friend. If it didn't feel like he was trading Wilson for her, House supposed he could have gotten used to her.

But since it did feel like that, since it _was_ like that, he had a hard time accepting her friendship.

Well, _obviously._

He'd made that much perfectly clear.

Of course, he didn't feel guilty about that, no matter how much Cuddy might have wanted him to. Nor did he find himself capable of fulfilling her implicit requests for his trust.

How could he?

Wilson had been his best friend for so long. That relationship had been the one – the only one – House had trusted for years. To have it suddenly wrenched from his grasp made him think twice about putting that kind of faith in anyone again.

And that was really the biggest difference between now and two years ago. As jaded as he'd been, some part of him at that time had still been able to maintain a friendship with Wilson. He'd still been relatively sane and in control enough to _have_ a friend.

But now he wasn't.

Obviously he wasn't, because Wilson was _gone_ – not just from House's apartment but from his _life_.

Two years ago they'd been best friends, but there was no way they were anymore… or ever would be again.

At best what House could hope for, assuming he ever did go back to work, was the possibility of being able to call himself Wilson's colleague.

And right now even that seemed unlikely. Considering Wilson was now essentially heading the diagnostics department, House suspected that they wouldn't even be able to peacefully coexist. Because should House return and _his_ part of the hospital remain in someone else's control, he wouldn't stop until that situation was fixed.

Honestly, as much as he could understand Wilson's need for a change of scenery, as much as House recognized that diagnostics was the most invigorating, challenging, and freeing branch of medicine out there, he couldn't share his job.

He _wouldn't. _

His job was the _one_ thing that consistently brought him any happiness. Everything else in his life had failed him on at least one occasion.

Stacy had left; the prostitutes offered some satisfaction, but there was no affection, no _love_ in screwing someone you had to pay. Wilson had left too, no substitute existing for best friend.

There was music, but 95% of it these days was terrible. Even the good artists were hawking their tunes in Starbucks coffee shops, and no longer did House get that intensely satisfying feeling of joy from lying on the floor and listening to the first few bars of a new record.

There was little to nothing new in the industry, no feeling to be had of transporting yourself to another place, another time, another world. There was only here and now, and it was unbearable, trite crap that he'd heard a million times before.

House knew it was foolish to say that he'd seen – or in this case heard – it all. But music no longer transcended, and if there was something new for him to experience, he'd grown tired of looking for it.

And _that_ was why his job was perfect. There was always something new to experience, something to explore.

But at that moment, House realized that that might not be true for much longer, not if Wilson and Foreman kept running the diagnostics department anyway. Because in that case, there was only disappointment and frustration to be had. And as much as House wanted to deny that that was going to happen, he thought he should get used to the idea that it _would_.

Technically, the change had already begun.

Cuddy had seen to that.

As much as she wanted to blame him for everything that had happened, as much as she wanted to say that _he_ hadn't thought his words out when he'd told Cameron that they were sleeping together…

Cuddy had been just as guilty, just as careless.

Just as hurtful.

He hadn't actually _told_ her that – not in so many words, anyway, and he had resolved himself to _not_ spelling it out for her. He might have been hurt, but he wasn't going to suffer _another_ indignity by telling her.

Besides, she shouldn't have needed to hear those words come out of his mouth to know she'd hurt him. She should have already known that, should have _automatically_ understood that taking _his_ department away would be the worst thing she could do to him.

But she didn't… or didn't care.

He wasn't sure which he preferred in this case. On the one hand, if she didn't know that she'd upset him, he realized that that meant she was an idiot. A _really_ big idiot who hadn't picked up on anything he'd done or said over the years, he told himself. But at the same time, the latter option – that she didn't care – didn't seem that much better.

It also didn't seem like _her_. She wasn't a callous person. Unlike House himself, she didn't try to hurt people, and she certainly didn't like it when she did do it. Really, in all of the time he'd known her, he knew that she could be stupid; however, it was almost a given that in those rare moments, she was being influenced by her emotions and not her intellect.

So he supposed that meant that… if she'd hurt him, it was because _he _had hurt her; it was because he'd been so ill at ease with the idea of sharing his job that he'd made the first move.

And _that_ meant that this was… all his fault.

Of course at this point, he didn't feel too badly about that. Whatever mistakes he'd made, she'd made plenty of her own in the last two days. And between that, the sting of her initial betrayal, his insomnia, and her quest to find him a babysitter, he didn't care all that much.

He definitely didn't feel _guilty_ about it.

He didn't even have time for that. The litany of strangers/nurses filing in and out of his apartment occupied his mind during the day, his anger over not sleeping keeping him busy at night. And all of the time, which wasn't much time at all, not involving one of those things was spent taking care of the rabbit.

He didn't like the rabbit, he told himself immediately.

Let it be known: Gregory House had _not_ gone and attached himself to something fluffy and white with a little twitchy nose. He had _not_ done that, because those animals were for whiny little girls – not for fifty-year-old, brain damaged drug addicts.

He did _not_ care about the stupid thing.

It was just that Cuddy, in her desperate desire to abandon him, had forgotten all about taking the rabbit back to the store. And although he'd _kind of_ almost hurt the rabbit, House didn't think that it was right to ignore the creature with quite the same fervor. So he'd simply taken care of the damn thing; it was just what he thought he should do.

Especially when he considered what ignoring it might result in. First it would whine and scream, and then it would eventually kick the bucket. And when it did that, the apartment would begin to smell awful, and that would make his already sensitive system react terribly to the whole thing.

So really, it was all about saving himself the trouble of dealing with disposing of Hitler's body later.

That's all there was to it.

_Really_.

He didn't like the rabbit, he reiterated in his mind. And he wouldn't miss it _at all_ when Cuddy did take it back. He wouldn't care one bit.

The thought was one he was about to repeat when he heard the bathroom door open. The soft click immediately drawing his attention away from himself, he instinctively winced at the slight, tinny noise. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be for it to aggravate his tinnitus.

Reactively he abruptly rolled over onto his stomach. Granted, it wouldn't do much to alleviate the ringing in his ears. But it _would_ make it seem like he hadn't been paying any attention to what Cuddy was doing. His gaze was no longer on the hallway; he didn't look like he was waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, which was what really mattered.

As much time as she'd spent interviewing hospice workers, House had spent an equal amount of minutes ignoring Cuddy. He hadn't spoken to her, save for those few minutes where he'd been forced to answer that he _did_ need more Vicodin.

Admittedly it was rather childish; the silent treatment reached its maximum potential when you were about six or seven, not when you were House's age. But nevertheless, he could tell that it was working, that Cuddy was being worn down by it.

Every time he refused to take her bait, every instance of a non-answer on his part – it was all working to make her feel remorseful. Although she'd at first responded to him with anger and resentment, she'd quickly abandoned the attitude of "how dare you ignore me." Instead preferring to try and entice him, she'd spent the better part of yesterday saying the most idiotic and annoying things in the hopes of getting an angered response from him.

But she'd underestimated his ability to ignore her. And because of that, she was now at the end of her rope, looking at him constantly with sad, yearning eyes. Which led him to suspect that she would apologize and capitulate at any moment; he just had to keep the charade going until she reached her breaking point.

Of course, he didn't miss the fact that getting what he wanted, in this instance, meant hurting other people. Wilson would be pissed as would Foreman and the rest of the team. It would be yet another example of House's needs superceding their own. And they would resent him for that… more so that they already did anyway.

But to be honest, House was okay with that. Or if not _okay_ then at least accepting of it; physical prowess and friendship might have been a thing of the past, but he _refused_ to let his job – his _genius_ – go the same way. That was something he wasn't willing to part with, so if he had to hurt someone…

Oh well.

He could live with that.

What he wasn't quite sure he could live with was his acknowledged secondary motivation for screwing with Cuddy. Because not wanting to share his work was one thing; being _reluctant_ to be _without_ Cuddy was another.

Truth be told, _that_ was almost unacceptable.

_No, _it _was_ unacceptable.

He'd worked so hard to get her to leave. He'd tried _everything_ to push her away, and now that he finally had, now that he was truly on the verge of being alone, he didn't like it.

He _despised_ it.

And himself for wanting her to stay.

His silent treatment no longer just a basic ploy, House suddenly realized that it was a good thing that he hadn't been talking. The chances of him saying something, of revealing something were too great. And he would never be able to live with himself if she found out what he was so ashamed to be feeling at all.

She could _not_ learn that he wanted her to stay, that he was… _afraid_ to let her go. She couldn't know just how pathetic he'd become.

So when she entered the room, he kept his mouth shut. He said nothing when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her cleavage barely contained by the tight sweater she was wearing. He said nothing when she moved to the side of the bed, and he saw that she was wearing one of the tight skirts she'd had messengered over the day before. He was even able to keep quiet when she started talking to him as though he were five years old.

"I'm leaving soon," she said in a gentle voice, sitting on the edge of the bed and peering down at him. "I can make you breakfast if you like before I go…" When he didn't respond, Cuddy continued, "I'll be back sometime this evening… depending on how much time I have to spend denying that we're sleeping together."

The implied accusation was impossible to miss.

But it was rather easy to ignore when he considered that she was _hoping_ to get a response from him. Given that he rarely gave her what she wanted, keeping quiet in this instant didn't require too much effort. And he would be lying if her annoyed glare didn't make it all worth it.

Folding her arms across her chest, she asked, "Is this how it's going to be? You're going to ignore me until I, what, take the case away from Foreman and Wilson and let their patient die?"

He shrugged noncommittally but didn't say anything. Although it wasn't like he didn't _want _to speak; he _did_. A plethora of quick quips and sarcastic comebacks popped into his mind. But he kept each and every one to himself.

From experience, he knew that uttering any one of them would weaken his overall plan of attack. He knew that saying something to agitate her would only egg her on, would only strengthen her resolve over letting Wilson and Foreman run the diagnostics department.

But then again, in that moment, he was also learning very quickly that his silence in and of itself could motivate her in just the same way. Apparently it _was_ motivating her in the same way, because instead of contrition, there was ire in her gaze; instead of seeking forgiveness, she defiantly fought back his silent war.

"Fine," she said, rising from the bed. "Stew all you want. Your team is _still_ going to take this case." Smoothing miniscule wrinkles that only she could see out of her skirt, Cuddy added, "I get that sharing isn't your strong suit, but… you're sick; your team wants to work. You're just going to have to accept that someone else is going to play in your sand box for a little while."

Rationally – in that small part of his mind that could still reason – he knew what she was doing. She was trying to provoke him in much the same way that he'd been silently provoking her. And that fact alone should have been all the reason he needed to _not_ let her words get to him.

But it wasn't.

It wasn't nearly enough.

Because even as part of him recognized what she was doing, the rest of him was _infuriated_ by the implied comparison she was making; the rest of him could not overlook being likened to a _child_.

As childish as his behavior might have been, as often as he'd _been_ that way in _life_, hearing her speak of him like that now was nothing short of enraging.

And humiliating.

Because the facts were impossible to miss; this wasn't just about his behavior. His current infantilization was more than the result of a prank, more than product of an iron-clad will. This time his problem was _physical_; he was _physically_ unable (or at least not trusted to be able) to care for himself. Unlike before, he now needed someone to medicate him, someone to watch him bathe, someone to cook for him – in other words, someone to make sure he didn't self-destruct or drown in the bathtub.

He needed _help_.

And that made him a child in a way that had nothing to do with his personality and everything to do with his body's inability to function once _again_ in the way that it should have.

And now, thanks to his big mouth and Cuddy's bitchiness, the situation had gotten exponentially worse, because the number of people responsible for caring for him had just expanded.

Part of him recognized that going from one to two wasn't all that much worse than just having Cuddy. Not unlike having kids, it was one of those things where if you were going to screw up your life like that, the quantity of people involved didn't exactly matter. This was embarrassing, and it sucked, and he _hated_ it, and that would be the case whether there was one person or twenty people involved.

He would despise this no matter what, but then… part of him also thought that the more witnesses there were, the more inescapable his reality felt. It was bad enough that Cuddy knew, but to now also have some _random_ person here as well to watch it all….

It was just too much.

And hearing Cuddy throw his current state back at him as though it were an acceptable insult didn't make him feel any better.

It made him want to break his imposed vow of semi-silence with shouting at her until she looked at him like she didn't know who he was.

But he didn't have a chance to do that; at that moment, for better or worse, the doorbell rang loudly. The noise immediately making him wince, any argument he felt like having was promptly forgotten about. Although he did not miss out of the corner of his eye Cuddy's sympathetic glance or his own resulting irritation, he was too concerned with the noise reverberating in his mind to care.

So when Cuddy announced needlessly, "I'll go get the door," he didn't pay attention to her.

And he _tried_ very had _not_ to pay attention to the conversation she had moments later with the hospice worker (whose name House hadn't cared to learn), but that was impossible to do. They were talking about him after all, and it was hard to ignore someone when they kept mentioning his name.

Right now Cuddy was going through "their schedule" (the term alone made him feel nauseous). The way she listed everything that had to be done during the day, her voice dry and monotone, almost as though she were reading from the phone book made him think that this was a conversation the two women had had many times previously. Although if that were the case, House couldn't remember when Cuddy would have had the time to chat about that without his knowledge; he certainly didn't recall any conversation about that.

But then he supposed it was possible that he'd done such a good job of ignoring her, of railing against this impossible situation instead of dealing with it head on, that he'd missed a thing or two.

And he decided then and there to resolve _that_.

Cuddy was going to leave for work now, he realized; the sound of the apartment door being opened and closed once more was proof of that fact. She was leaving, and there wasn't going to be anything to stop her from doing that right at this moment.

But that was okay.

A plan formulating quickly in his mind, House understood all too well what it was that he needed to do: If he couldn't ignore or end _her_ current presence in and control over his life, he sure as _hell_ could make her feel _his_ influence in _hers_.

He smirked to himself.

This was going to be fun.

What _wasn't_ fun was Wilson stepping into Princeton-Plainsboro for the first time in over a month and seeing _Cuddy _on his first day back.

Entering the hospital lobby an hour after he'd intended to be at work, Wilson was nothing short of shocked (and dismayed) to see his boss. She was leafing through files at the nurses' station, her gaze serene and untroubled. To be honest, she looked as though she hadn't ever left, hadn't ever chosen to take a month off to be with _House_, and that fact just made Wilson wish he could slip past her without uttering a word.

He wasn't prepared to see her today; he thought she'd still be on leave, and he'd have time to adjust to work before dealing with that.

But then he supposed he should have expected this, as it was just one of many surprises and twists he hadn't been ready for today.

It had started when he'd woken up. Lying there in Cuddy's bed, that aspect of his life still bizarre and a little incestuous, he'd felt a normal (normal for his current self, anyway) amount of awkwardness and shame. That coupled with the sour taste of alcohol and overwhelming grief was practically his default position these days, and he'd been ready for those emotions when he'd risen.

But the anxiety he'd felt this morning was a new emotion mixed into his mental cocktail.

And it was still one he had a hard time shaking.

As much as Wilson would have liked to claim that his nerves were the product of essentially starting an entirely new job, he knew that they weren't. They couldn't be, because Wilson had done this job before; he'd been part of the differential, even led it when House couldn't occasionally. So he couldn't have been anxious over running the diagnostics for that reason, he concluded.

But then that left him with only one reason why he would feel that way. And that motivation revolved solely around the circumstances Wilson had last found himself in when he was working in diagnostics. Unusual circumstances to be sure, because _that_ time had involved treating his… girlfriend while his… best friend tried to operate with a brain injury.

And it was _that_, knowing that he could come in the building, take the case, as one person and leave a completely different person that had made Wilson wake up anxiously, that _still _made him nervous.

It hadn't helped that he'd needed to go to his apartment in order to get a dress shirt and tie. That fact alone had kept him from going to work for two days, because it had just served as another reminder – an incredibly potent one – of what could happen and what _had_ happened.

He'd understood, as he'd walked around an empty home, that he could kill just as House had.

He could destroy a couple, a _family_, just as House had.

And frankly if it hadn't been for the multiple shots he'd forced himself to have that morning, Wilson was sure that he would have never made it in at all.

But as it was, the alcohol _had_ given him the courage he'd needed to walk back into his apartment – into _her_ apartment. It had given him the ability, if only for a few minutes, to walk through the empty rooms and hallways, to sift through his side of the closet and find what he needed without also thinking about what, _who_, was missing in this home. Cliché though it was for someone in his position to turn to alcohol, it had nevertheless allowed him to function without letting him think too much.

Unfortunately, what the liquor couldn't do was make Cuddy ignore him. Of course, he hoped to be able to slip past her unnoticed, but he didn't think that it was likely. He _smelled_ like alcohol, and he hadn't had any breakfast, so the rum he'd consumed had had more of an effect on him than he would have liked. He wasn't stumbling about, but he wasn't exactly walking about at his normal pace. So unless she were drunk too, there was _no way_ she was going to miss him.

At that moment, he had half a mind to turn around and retreat to the one place that had become, ironically, his safe haven: her house. His feet itched to turn around and head right back out the lobby doors, but the rest of him couldn't rationalize doing so.

How could he really?

He was sleeping in _her_ bed, laying his head down on the same pillows she used. He was using her bathroom, eating her food, watching her television. There was, in his mind anyway, a weird intimacy between them because of that fact. Which was odd, he thought, because he was furious with her at the moment. But nonetheless, it seemed _stupid_ to be afraid of being a little tipsy around her; she'd clearly already seen him look worse.

So he forced himself to move further into the hospital, to take steps that brought him nearer and nearer to her. The farther from the doors he got, the more reassured her actually became; as much as he thought he should be afraid, he was kind of feeling like the common idiotic criminal you always read about in the news. They were always nervous at first and then becoming more and more reassured and careless as the crime proceeded forward.

And so really, with that comparison holding true to form, it made sense that just like those idiots…

He got caught.

He was just about parallel to Cuddy, just seconds away form being out of her immediate line of sight when she looked up.

Glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the confusion on her face. He hoped that she would look in the wrong direction, that she would give him an out without intending to.

But he wasn't that lucky.

A tentative sniff of the air and the skin along her prominent nose wrinkled, and her eyes darted immediately in his direction.

Caught he stopped in his tracks. Her gaze narrowed on him heatedly within milliseconds, nanoseconds even, the change from serene to confused to shocked to livid so quick as to almost seem inorganic.

Which was in direct contrast to his own slow processing of the situation (another thing to blame on the rum).

He was a deer caught in headlights, unsure how to react to her ire. Should he apologize? No was his immediate answer, as he remembered that he was, in fact, really annoyed at her; recalling that fact made it easy to not feel guilty, to shift from suppressed fear to a barely contained defiance that dared her to fault him.

Naturally, she accepted the challenge.

Stalking towards him, Cuddy demanded in a terse, low voice, "Are you _drunk_?"

It went without saying that he wasn't in the mood to answer the question. He wasn't going to be contrite about the whole thing, much less give her a heart-felt reply that signaled his acceptance of her authority over him. His eyes widening in mocking affront, he asked, "Do I _seem_ drunk to you?"

"You are, aren't you?" Dazed, muted shock flit across her features in a way that was so satisfying for him that he wanted all of a sudden to come to work drunk every day of his life. But she quickly recovered with a few harsh words for him. "You show up to work two _days_ after Cameron came to me, asking on Foreman's behalf, on _your_ behalf, for this case. Two days," she repeated, stressing each syllable. "And now, you show up –"

Bored with her irritation, he suddenly interrupted, "Am I fired?"

His question obviously had her taken aback. Lucky for him, her mouth briefly shut, her brow furrowing in confusion. Slowly, the single word breathy and sounding as though it were stuck in the back of her throat, she asked, "What?"

"Are you firing me?"

"No," she said, shaking her head immediately. "No, of course not. I –"

"So then you're just wasting my time," Wilson concluded.

Again she looked taken back by his attitude and words. Suffice it to say, as much as he'd spent more time with her this past month than anyone else, she still hadn't caught on. She still didn't realize that he'd changed, _been_ violently, forcefully, _painfully _changed by suddenly losing Amber.

But Cuddy would learn – and accept – that fact soon enough.

In the meantime though, until she did figure it out, he didn't want to be near her. So he used her surprise to his advantage. "Well, since that's the case, I'm going to go treat my patient now." He gave her a slight nod of the head before starting to walk away.

It was a tactic he'd seen House use many times; he'd say something that would throw her for a loop and then run away before she'd had a chance to protest. It was a relatively simple idea, one that always seemed to work.

But there must have been something else about that technique that Wilson had yet to perfect, because he'd barely gotten to the elevator before Cuddy had caught up with him.

"We're not done here," she said in a cool, hushed voice.

Sighing a little, Wilson pressed the call button for the elevator and looked longingly at the automatic doors. As calm as he tried to appear, inwardly he was beginning to feel his exasperation reach its zenith. And he knew that if he didn't get out of this conversation as quickly as possible, there was a small chance that he would do or say something that _would_ be enough to get him fired.

He belatedly decided that he should try to play confused with her, try to buy himself some time before the elevator arrived. "There's something to discuss?"

"You know there is," she replied irritably, her hand clasping around one of his elbows. "I might not want to fire you. But if you're not sober, you _can't_ treat patients."

"Really?"

He was going for surprise with the one word question. But there was no denying that there was little more than venom in it, the bittersweet hypocrisy of her words too much for him to bear. "Cause here I was thinking it was a departmental _requirement_ to be inebriated when it came to working in diagnostics," he snarled, his harsh words accented by the loud mechanical ping of the elevator doors.

Finally.

Wilson eagerly stepped into the elevator as Cuddy, her voice tight with an emotion that he couldn't quite name, said, "He has a pain problem. _You_ don't."

For years her logic would have worked on him. Hell, for the majority of the hospital, that kind of reasoning would _still_ work. House had a chunk of thigh muscle missing; he was in constant pain; he needed relief; he deserved relief. There was something incredibly linear about that thought. Figure out the problem and treat it as best as you could – that was what they did, Wilson knew.

But after losing Amber, after seeing just how messy the actual equation was of constantly supplying House with Vicodin and a set of rules that allowed him to act out in all sorts of ways, he couldn't get behind that logic anymore.

Angrily he punched the elevator button that he needed, his knuckles rasping against the plastic. "My girlfriend is dead. My best friend _killed_ her," Wilson reminded her, disbelief and fury lacing each and every syllable in the same pervasive way both emotions had filtered into his every waking moment. "Every day, you let him get _away_ with things anyone else would have been fired for. _You_ reinforced the idea that he could do whatever he wanted and it would be okay."

Pointing a finger at her, he added, "He lives in pain. Yes. He does. But he causes everyone else to be in just as much pain as he's in."

The doors to the elevator began to close, but Cuddy easily slipped her thin body inside, forcing him to be trapped with her for the short ride. "I'm not _unaware_ of that," she told him hastily. "But if anything, his behavior is even more of a reason to make you sit this out until you've sobered up."

Wilson shook his head violently. "As much as you want to believe that I've turned into _him_," he said, hurling the last word into the air as though it were a slur. "I'm not. I _won't_ be. And I don't need the same punishments and protections from you."

She raised an eyebrow in his direction and immediately used his words against him. "You were just complaining that I let him get away with too much," she pointed out. "That _I_ helped kill Amber."

Her mouth twisted into a sour frown, almost as though the idea was as repulsive to her as it was truthful to him.

"You _complain_," she said hurriedly. "That I give him too much leeway while also thinking that I should, what, give you more?"

He couldn't lie; he saw the hypocrisy she was pointing out. He understood what she was saying – he couldn't want her to be harsh and lax at the same time, as it would just make him as bad as House. He understood the implication and hated it, his disdain made worse by the fact that he couldn't change the way he felt. He knew what she was saying, but he still wanted to be the favorite, the golden boy, the one who got the unconditional benefit of the doubt. As childish as it all sounded, he didn't think it was too wrong to want that kind of security.

And knowing that he couldn't deny her point or relinquish his own position, he settled for lashing out in response. The elevator doors shuddering open, he said, "I want you to leave me alone. That's what I want, Cuddy."

He got out of the elevator, and she started to follow him. But he held up his hands to stop her. "I mean it," he warned. "I want…" He laughed humorlessly (which made her look at him as though he were insane) as he searched for the right words.

"I want _nothing_ to do with House," he finally added. "Or _you_, beyond what is absolutely necessary. So I'll eat a mint and let Foreman take the lead on this," he told her. It was a conciliation he didn't exactly feel like giving, but if it would get her off his back, he was okay with it. "I'll do anything to keep you away."

His words were cruel, cold. With bitterness coating his tongue and sorrow filling her eyes, he realized that all of his past attempts to be friends with her were for naught. Years of forced concern and reaching out, of trying to help House and pulling together for a common cause he was no longer attached to… _this_ was what it amounted to. This moment and the abrupt silence on her part contained within was all that they'd earned for all of their effort.

They both knew it.

At that instant, they both realized that they were not friends.

They had _never_ been friends.

And everything they had tried to do together before now was as meaningless as every one of her threats turned out to be. Because instead of fighting back, instead of showing any desire to bridge that gap, Cuddy simply nodded her head. Her response a single word that left him wanting more, she said, "Okay," and walked away.

Standing in the hallway, Wilson was lost.

He knew this hospital like the back of his hand, but nevertheless, he looked around the corridors as though he'd never seen any of it before. It all seemed completely different to him now, his mind too busy trying to comprehend what had just happened.

In a weird way, he _did_ understand the events he'd just been a part of. At the same time, though, he found it bizarre that he'd been able to push Cuddy away like that.

But he didn't have time to really consider the matter, much less discern what it was exactly that he felt about it, because at that second, Kutner popped up. "Hey, man," he said with a foolish grin on his face. "You're back."

Wilson gave a weak smile he couldn't have felt less at that moment but said nothing. Which was good enough for Kutner, who was like the human equivalent of an overactive yellow lab; overly friendly and excitable, he was not easily dissuaded from conversation or by the lack of one.

It was a fact that Wilson usually found endearing. Given the current circumstances, however, he wasn't exactly feeling quite the same way about it. "We didn't think you were going to come in, since… well, you know, since it's been two days and the accident, which you probably don't want to talk about," Kutner said dismally. "So I guess I shouldn't have just mentioned it…."

He looked at Wilson expectantly, perhaps hoping that he would change the topic of conversation. But when that didn't happen, Kutner started talking some more. "Anyway, we didn't want to wait for you to come in. So we went ahead with the diagnosis… not that that ended up being the most brilliant idea, what with Foreman –"

Exasperated and not particularly interested in any problem Kutner might have been having with Foreman, Wilson interrupted, "How _is_ the patient doing?"

Of course that question seemed rather pointless after spending twenty minutes with the team. Because the issues House's fellows were facing became quite apparent within that time.

At the moment, they were all confined in the larger office, House's own room ominously empty. Foreman was sitting at the head of the glass table, Taub, Thirteen, and Kutner crowded around it. Nobody looked happy; nobody _was_ happy. Wilson preferred to lean against one of the walls and participate at a distance, but even he, from this short distance, could tell that everyone was upset.

Any time Foreman made a suggestion, Taub and Kutner viciously shot it down. Shot it down with relish, Wilson thought, because, even though they weren't wrong about the medicine, they would make their criticisms in the coldest of ways and smile when Foreman had to concede their points.

Which he clearly didn't want to do, Wilson could tell. Given that his last patient had died, Foreman had a lot to prove with this case. But instead of responding to his recent failure with grace and deference, he was overcompensating for it. He was grasping the reins too tightly, refusing to accept anyone else's help.

Frankly, Wilson was surprised that Foreman was even bothering with the team process at this point. The younger man was so clearly trying to prove his abilities that it was even more obvious that he didn't want anyone else solving this case. He didn't want anyone else taking credit for a correct diagnosis, and that rubbed everyone else – Wilson included – the wrong way.

Well, maybe not everyone, he immediately amended as he stole a glance at Thirteen. She was sitting at the table with the rest of them, but she seemed a million miles away, her sunken eyes sad and unfocused on the matter at hand. And because of that, Wilson thought that there was no way that she cared about Foreman turning into a bizarrely more pompous, less talented version of House. How could she when she wasn't even _trying_ to participate in the diagnosis?

Taub and Kutner kept bouncing ideas off of one another, willfully ignoring Foreman's attempts at running the differential. They were currently discussing the likelihood of a toxin affecting their ten-year-old patient as opposed to the likelihood of Foreman's diagnosis of an antibiotic-resistant infection.

Kutner leaned forward in his seat and looked intently at Wilson, almost as though he hoped Wilson would step in and make Foreman agree with his diagnosis. "It's a toxin. It would explain all of her symptoms. We need to break in to –"

"If it was a toxin, she wouldn't be the only one affected," Foreman pointed out ruefully.

Taub's response was uncharacteristically gruff. "The rest of her family weighs 300 pounds. She weighed in at 85. It takes a lot more mercury to kill Willy and his wife, Shamu, than Nemo."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Nice," and it was impossible to miss the sarcasm in the word. Just as it was impossible to ignore the way he tried to wrest control when he added in an authoritative tone, "We're not going to base a theory, much less treat a ten-year-old girl, on the idea that the rest of her family is really, really fat."

Kutner spoke up. "Why not? It would explain why they have no symptoms and why she does." Foreman opened his mouth to respond, but Kutner stopped him from doing so by adding, "Or maybe the exposure happened at school or summer camp – at the library even. If the rest of her family weren't with her at the time, it would also explain her symptoms and their lack of them."

"We need to search her house," Taub interjected. "And anywhere else she might have been."

The implication of Taub's words was one that at first surprised Wilson. The idea that the team hadn't already done all of the normal things House would make them do – like break into someone's home – hadn't crossed Wilson's mind at all; he'd just assumed that they would do it out of habit. That they hadn't suggested that, underneath all of their voluntary servitude, was the desire to change or at least the recognition that House's way wasn't the way things should be.

Of course the fact that Taub was bringing up searching the home now _also_ meant that they – or at least _he_ – still believed that doing things House's way would yield an answer.

And Wilson hated that idea.

So he stepped in, actively participating in the diagnosis for the first time. "We're not searching the house," he said with conviction.

Taub and Kutner both gave him dark, confused looks. But it was the older of the two who spoke up, "And why is that?"

In a way, Wilson wasn't sure that he could explain his reasoning to everyone else. There was no medicine behind it, no assurance that the answer they needed could be found any way else. To be perfectly honest, it had, he realized, absolutely nothing to do with logic or reason, the two things they valued in this room above nearly all else, and absolutely _everything_ to do with Wilson's desire to remove House (and his logic) from his life.

But he couldn't say _that_.

He couldn't admit to that in a room full of people who still believed fully in House's genius. Even if they had a hard time buying all of his methods, they were still willing to use them when they got stuck; they were still willing to believe that, in the end, House knew better than the rest of them. And telling them that they were wrong…

Well, Wilson knew it wouldn't go well.

So he tried to reason as best as he could. "You ran a tox panel –"

"A standard one," Kutner pointed out immediately.

"Which means the toxin she'd have been exposed to is one that she's unlikely to have been around," Wilson continued. "We don't test for _gold_," he offered as an example. "Because the likelihood of it happening is slim to none. So unless this girl was being poisoned – or rubbing up against a huge mound of rare toxic material –"

This time Taub was the one who interrupted. "If we were looking for something common, she would have already been diagnosed, treated, and home watching Scooby Doo in fluffy slippers."

Wilson knew that he couldn't disagree with that; Taub was right, and there was no point in debating that matter. So he changed the subject instead, which was really easy to do. After all, he _was_ the one technically in charge of the whole thing. Foreman might have had some power, but if you looked past the power struggle and the odd, somewhat chaotic organization of the diagnostics department, it was clear that Wilson had the most power. Everyone else was fighting for control of the top position because of House.

But Wilson had his job, his _title_ no matter what was going on with House.

And Wilson planned on using that to his advantage.

"This is what's going to happen," he said firmly. "We're going to run another tox panel. Include every rare metal… _anything_ you can think of, include it," he told Taub. "Kutner, talk to the family and see if anyone else she's come into contact with has been sick."

Kutner and Taub nodded their heads and realizing they had no ground to protest on, stood up from the table. It was something that Wilson liked, especially since he knew Foreman would be reluctant to follow his next order. "Schedule for a full body MRI. Look for any suspicious growths. Paraneoplastic syndrome would also account for her symptoms."

Naturally Foreman didn't move. "This isn't cancer." Everyone in the room glanced at him, expecting a fight to result. "You think it's cancer, because that's all you're trained to see. But that's not what this is. _This_ is an infection, and every second we spend not treating her, the more likely it is that she'll –"

"I have no intention of killing anyone," Wilson said darkly, a hint of a threat in his tone. "But cancer fits, more so than an infection or a toxin at this point. Do the MRI and follow it up with a PCR."

"You're _drunk_," Foreman pointed out firmly. "You don't get to push us around –"

"And you don't have this case without _me_."

Whether or not that was the truth was… debatable. Cameron had gotten Wilson involved, but if that had been the selling point for Cuddy, he didn't know. Nor did he particularly care at this point; true or false, it was something Foreman clearly believed, a look of embarrassment flashing across his face.

And Wilson capitalized on that moment by telling all of them, "Get to work."

The three men eagerly left the room, leaving only Thirteen and Wilson in the fellows' office. Truth be told, he'd expected her to have been present enough to at least tag along with one of the other doctors.

But she hadn't.

She just sat there expectantly, looking at him as though she were waiting for him to comment on her existence.

It was a look Wilson was all too familiar with; it was the look of a woman in need of comfort and reassurance, of a woman hoping she'd get both from _him_.

He didn't like putting it that way, of course, because he didn't like sounding like the kind of man who thought all women were the same. But the truth was that women weren't as unique as they wished they were, and when they were upset and looking for someone to comfort them, they had a look that Wilson recognized readily.

They had soft, cautious eyes that implored him to prod carefully and lips slightly pouted that were sad but not angry. They had smooth lines of passivity drawn along the gentle contours of their faces and eyelashes that fluttered open and closed in long, sleepy intervals. Equal parts sorrow and seduction, this particular expression was one Wilson had memorized. Because if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that compassion was the greatest aphrodisiac there was. It peeled panties more quickly than anything else in the world, and Wilson had learned to pick up on the signs a woman gave off when she was in need of a friend and he was in need of… something _else_.

But as he stood there in the fellows' office, he truly believed that he'd always genuinely been concerned for those women. He'd usually gotten a lot of sex out of it, yes, but that had always happened later on down the line… typically after he'd gone and married the girl.

And looking at Thirteen now, he could tell that she was hoping he would say something. He was standing off to the side of her, but her eyes kept flashing over in his direction, almost as if to say, "Ask me what's wrong, so I can tell you."

Truth be told, he suspected that whatever secret she was holding onto was a good one. She'd always kept part of herself hidden; the fact that Wilson didn't even really know her name was proof of that. But then, in the past, he'd never gotten the impression that she'd been looking for someone to press her on the matter. There were no signs of that, so he'd always deduced that she'd wanted to keep her secrets _secret_.

And that just cemented in his mind that this was different, _worse_ than anything she'd hidden in the past.

It concerned him a little; it really did, because the last thing he wanted was for something unexpected to bite him in the ass. As much as Wilson was resigned to the fact that this job would have some element of surprise in it, he wasn't sure he could handle the kind of mediocrity caused by seeing a potential problem and ignoring it. The patient flat lining he could deal with, but Thirteen's secret creating problems was something he didn't _want _to deal with.

So, sighing, he allowed himself to be the person, or rather the shoulder, Thirteen was clearly looking for. His voice falsely bright and sympathetic, he asked, "What's up?"

Unfortunately for him, she clearly didn't feel comfortable with giving him an honest answer. "You didn't tell me what you wanted me to do," she said in even tones that let only the slightest bit of emotion bleed through.

Wilson shrugged. "Well… to be honest, Thirteen, you've been quiet throughout the entire diagnosis. I wasn't sure if you were up to –"

"I'm fine," she interrupted, which of course just confirmed that she _wasn't_. No one who was fine said that they were fine like _that._ And even if they did, certainly nobody who was doing okay would act the way she had been behaving for the last month.

Now granted… Wilson didn't exactly know how she'd been during the time he'd been on bereavement leave. But he'd noticed a change in her even before he'd left. The last time he'd seen her working a case, she'd been distracted, quiet in a sad sort of way. And now that he thought about it, he realized that whatever was wrong with her had been that way since…

The accident.

Since Amber.

Immediately his mind closed itself off to the world around him. Thirteen's problems, the case, the set of eyes on him – it was all forgotten as his consciousness locked onto the terrifyingly intense memories of the last time he'd been in this office, of the last time he'd seen Amber alive.

He had tried so hard to forget and ignore, tried so hard to concentrate on his anger and not the gut-wrenching terror clawing inside of him

But it didn't matter now.

Because of his dwelling on Thirteen's odd behavior, there was no stopping his train of thought.

He could not pretend not to see House sitting in the emergency room as he obsessed over the bus accident. Wilson could not ignore the sound of his own voice writing off his best friend's concern. Nor could he deny to himself now that when he'd been saying all of those things, when he'd been encouraging House to rest instead of ruminate, Amber had been in a hospital bed across town cold and alone.

Dying.

Bile tunneled into the back of his throat as that image overpowered everything, and it was all he could do to swallow the acrid taste back.

Why hadn't he known?

Why hadn't he _seen_?

Over the years, Wilson had had many ideas about love dispelled for him, but up until this past month, he truly thought that, if something were wrong with a loved one, he would _know_. He would feel _something_ if there'd been an accident or a problem. He _had_ felt it when he'd hung up the phone on Danny, and his brother had disappeared shortly after, lost in the world and in his own mind.

There'd been something then, but there hadn't been with Amber, and Wilson had to wonder why that was.

Again he asked himself why he hadn't known something was off.

Because he hadn't loved Amber like he'd loved his brother?

No.

No, that wasn't the reason, because, even though they'd been together for a short time, Wilson loved her with an earnest conviction he'd never felt before. And there was no doubt in his mind that he would have married her if he'd had the opportunity to do so. So it wasn't a matter of his feelings for her blinding him to everything else, because he loved her with everything he had.

He loved her and wanted to protect her, but he hadn't.

And just as he was about to ask himself why once again, for what had to be the millionth time since her death, it suddenly hit him. The difference between Danny and Amber had nothing to do with his feelings for either of them. It didn't even have much to do with House.

It had everything to do with Wilson himself and his incessant need to care about everyone indiscriminately.

Before, when he'd hung up the phone on Danny, Wilson had cared about many things and people. But he hadn't done it with quite the same pathology as he did it now. Back then, he'd allowed himself to say no, to set boundaries, to care about himself more than others. And maybe that was why he could recognize that something bad was happening to Danny; he hadn't been so caught up with everyone else that he'd had a chance to realize that his brother was in danger.

This time, though, he'd been so caught up with House and caring for him that Wilson hadn't noticed that anything was wrong. He hadn't noticed that Amber had been taking diet pills. If she'd spent time agonizing over her figure in the mirror or lost any weight, he hadn't paid close enough attention to know. So too had he not realized that she was taking Amantadine for the flu, nor could he name the person who gave her the pills or how she came by them.

He hadn't even noticed that Amber, who always answered her pages promptly, hadn't called him back in over twenty-four hours.

And as much as Wilson wanted to blame that fact on House, as much as he _was_ going to blame some of that on House, Wilson realized that…

It was equally his fault as well.

House took advantage of his friendship, yes, but Wilson understood with more clarity than ever that that alone could not explain what had happened or prevent it from happening again. For better or worse, his caring was part of the equation, and he couldn't ignore that.

There was only one thing he could do: stop himself from caring; become the selfish person House always wanted him to be; become the kind of person he'd spent the last ten or fifteen years of his life despising.

And he thought that that should have been hard for him to do.

But glancing at Thirteen, who was still giving him that look, he actually felt at ease with not caring. He wasn't sure why that was – if it was Thirteen herself that he didn't care about or just the weight itself being lifted off of his shoulders that relaxed him. But he didn't question the feeling too much, instead choosing to embrace it.

It was better this way after all.

His tone cooling off considerably, he told her, "You're not paying attention to the case. So you have three choices: you can pretend to care long enough to treat our patient; you can go work in the clinic, or you can go home. I don't care which. Just make your decision soon."

She bristled under his orders, visibly unsure of how to take his change in demeanor. Which he could understand, he thought. For Thirteen, he'd gone from being concerned to fed up without even a pit stop at feigning concern, and he could comprehend her confusion.

But he wasn't going to try and explain it to her. As much as she probably felt that she deserved an explanation, he was more comfortable with letting her believe that there was no rhyme or reason to his mood. It was better to let her think that he was crazy than to show her – or anyone – just how dark the road he was on was becoming.

Watching her stand up hastily and leave the room, he couldn't deny that he felt a slight twinge of pain for hurting her. So too could he not deny that it was absolutely the right thing to do.

He didn't follow her, not even to ask her where she was headed.

Instead, he sat down at the fellows' table with resolution.

There was work to be done, and everything else would just have to wait.

Which was exactly what Cuddy was telling herself at the very same moment. But unlike Wilson, Cuddy understood, even though it was barely ten am, that there wasn't a chance in hell of any work actually being done. Where as Wilson had no friends to be concerned with at the moment, Cuddy had House to worry about.

And she was beginning to realize that, in House's estimation, the only thing that mattered was _him_. Forget the applications for tenure that she needed to look through. Forget the nurses' union's requests. What he thought she should focus on was him and him alone, and that was the one thing she was a little tired of doing.

She'd hired the hospice nurse to look after him during the day, to keep him occupied while she tried to catch up on paperwork. But it was _very_ clear that that plan had failed.

He'd called several times already, so many times that she'd lost count. The first call coming about ten minutes after her fight with Wilson, she'd been relieved to have a distraction… and confused that the distraction should come in the form of someone who had been acting like a three-year-old by giving her the silent treatment.

But now, an hour or so having gone by, the calls kept coming. And no longer relieved or confused, Cuddy was simply furious. He had no reason to keep talking to her; he was only asking her the most inane questions – where are my socks? where did I put my book? which journal had this article in it? – and it was driving her nuts.

Part of her clung to the idea that he missed her company and that this was his awful way of showing that he wanted her to come home. But with each phone call made, she was becoming increasingly convinced that his only motivation was to piss her off. No one – not even House – could be _this_ annoying if they were really trying to apologize.

So that could only mean that he was trying to make her even more angry. Which made no _rational_ sense, she admitted, but considering that this _was_ House, it suited his personality.

And so it made sense that the next call she received was from him.

"Whatcha doing?" She obviously couldn't _see_ him saying those words, but she didn't doubt that he was grinning like a wolf who'd just received the key to the coop.

Through gritted teeth, she reminded him, "I'm at work."

"Well, that's obvious," he replied as though she was being an idiot. "How else would you be able to answer your office's phone?"

She sighed at the question and leaned back in her desk chair. The muscles in her back and neck suddenly becoming tense, she tried to alleviate some of the tension by stretching her body as best as she could. But the movement didn't help, and she suspected that it wouldn't until House acted like a _big boy_.

Which was to say that she would _never_ feel better.

Resignation over her pain suddenly overtaking her, she explained in a flat tone, "That was supposed to be a hint to get you to stop calling me. I have work to do." He started to say something, but she quickly stopped him. "I have a meeting at noon that I needed to prepare for," she said, talking over him. "I have to go."

And before he could even respond, Cuddy hung up the phone.

Admittedly the act was cold – especially considering she didn't even say goodbye to him. But really that was nothing compared to what she did next.

Standing she easily made her way to her outer office where her assistant sat dutifully typing.

"Do me a favor," Cuddy told the young woman in a serious tone. "Don't put any more calls from that number through."

The nineteen year old nodded her head, but Cuddy doubted that this would be the last she heard of House. As much as she wished it were, she knew him all too well. And though her assistant was decent at her job, a teenager really was no match for a fifty-year-old man-child.

As a result, it came as no great shock that ten minutes later, when the phone rang and Cuddy answered it, House was on the other line.

"Miss me?"

"I'm surprised it took you that long to find your cell phone," she said, completely unimpressed, before slamming the phone down.

Her office descending into silence once more, Cuddy nervously reached for a stray rubber band lying on her desk. Plucking it up, she began to twirl it around with her fingers, the aimless motion somehow making it easier for her to think. As the band moved along the pads of her fingers, she considered just how likely it was that he'd keep using his cell and her assistant would keep letting those calls through.

The rubber band snapped angrily against her fingers, and she sighed. The chances were too great to ignore, she realized.

Immediately marching to the outer office once more, Cuddy clarified, "When you answer the phone, if you hear his voice, hang up."

The assistant, ashen by her own mistake, could only nod once more.

And for a brief period of time, everything seemed to go… _well_. Great even, because for over an hour, she was able to do work without interruption. Budgets were looked at; personnel got their request forms evaluated (and usually denied), and she could do all of it _without _House calling to bother her.

In the back of her mind, she realized that it shouldn't have been so… _enjoyable_ to do her job and to be able to do it without having to stop every hour to get House back under control. But it really was nice to be at work and to have this change of pace that allowed her to focus all of her energy on the hospital itself.

And that made her feel guilty.

Because as wonderful as all of this was, Cuddy was not forgetful of the circumstances that afforded her this peace and quiet. And for each instance that she felt good about getting things done, there was a brief reminder that echoed through her body that this wouldn't have been possible if not for the accident.

House, if he were here, would mock her guilt; she knew that much. He would point out that there was no real reason that she shouldn't enjoy her life (God only knew how much time she spent doing the opposite), and he would be right about that. Of course, his point would have been buried ten feet beneath a series of comments about her breasts, ass, and any other body part he took a liking to that day, but he would have been right: there was no reason for her to feel guilty.

But she felt that way nonetheless.

And unfortunately for her, there was no off button to _stop_ her from feeling that way, which meant that she could only continue to do what she was doing – work and not dwell too much on the feelings that lurked beneath the thin veneer of happiness.

It was easy to do it – of that she had no doubt. Cuddy was nothing if not able to pretend that the things that bothered her didn't. Years of med school, of working in a profession that was littered with and often ruled by sexist, anti-Semitic assholes – she would have never gotten through any of it if she didn't know how to detach herself from her feelings.

A skill well used in her daily life, it was _so _easy to put that professional smile (friendly but not too friendly) on her face and welcome a pair of very rich prospective donors into her office. Her heart was heavy, the muscle pumping blood through her body as though each contraction was too much effort to bear, but outwardly, she was light.

She moved through her office with confidence and grace. She asked the right questions in a calm, interested manner and answered the Coopersmiths' questions with equal poise. Not even when they, wanting to see that their donation to the cancer ward would go to good use, requested to meet the head of oncology did Cuddy bat an eyelash. "I'm sorry," she said in controlled tones that allowed for the slightest bit of sympathy to flow through. "Although we do usually allow potential donors to set up a meeting with a department head, our head of oncology is unavailable at the moment."

Cuddy paused expertly, knowing that the next sentence would sound even more potent if it were preceded by silence. "Dr. Wilson has had a death in the family and is on bereavement leave for the time being."

The couple gasped, their eyes widening in surprise and sadness as the words left her mouth. Inwardly their reaction made Cuddy smile, but she didn't let the victory she was feeling show.

"My assistant can get you the number for the interim head of oncology, if you would like it. However, Dr. Blake would be in no position to guarantee you how your money would be spent once –"

She didn't get much further in her off-the-cuff speech, though, because at that moment, the door to her office opened loudly. And right behind the squeak of hinges was an interruption in the form of her nervous-looking assistant.

The potential donors turned to see what the noise was, and though their gaze was now on the teenager standing in the doorway, Cuddy was careful not to glare at the girl; there was an off chance that the Coopersmiths would see it – which she clearly didn't want. Even if her assistant had broken the first rule of working for her: don't interrupt when there were people in the office.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Cuddy," the girl said quickly. "But there's a phone call you need to take."

Cuddy pursed her lips carefully. Since her assistant hadn't given a name, hadn't described the nature of the call, Cuddy could only believe that the phone call was from _House_.

Obviously she'd told her assistant to hang up the phone, but Cuddy also knew that House could be… _wily_ in the worst sense of the word. And considering he knew that she had an important meeting at noon, he'd probably taken the last hour and a half of time to formulate a way to ruin it.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how likely it was. And that angered her – not just his persistence but also her inability to have foreseen that this was going to happen. His tenaciousness and her ignorance combining in a way that threatened this meeting, it _infuriated_ her.

But she didn't let it show.

She was fully aware that her would-be donors were now looking at her for a reaction and so she reacted accordingly. "I'll have to call them back, Penny. I'm in a –"

"No, I'm sorry," the young assistant interrupted, her voice sounding stressed and a blush appearing in long blotches along her neck and cheeks. "He said it was an emergency, and I didn't think you'd want to wait till this was over."

Cuddy stood there motionless for a brief moment. In the back of her mind, running in an endless loop, was the question: _why_ was this happening to her?

Of course, she knew what the answer was; this kept happening to her, because she let it, because she hadn't worked to keep House out of her life…

Because, if anything, she'd done everything she could to _ingratiate_ him into her life.

And knowing that this was entirely her fault, she nodded her head. "All right," she told her assistant before glancing apologetically towards her donors. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take this. Please excuse me."

But her calm, regretful demeanor evaporated the second she closed the French doors to her inner office behind her. Her gaze darkening as she glared at her assistant, Cuddy demanded, "Is this House?"

Penny nodded her head. "Yes," she said guiltily. And Cuddy was ready to yell at her for not hanging up the phone, but the assistant interrupted quickly, "But he sounded really upset."

"He was lying," Cuddy dismissed easily. "He knew you would come get me if he sounded upset enough."

"Dr. Cuddy… with all due respect, I deal with him just as much as you do. I've hung up on him all day," she pointed out, sounding incredibly stressed and annoyed at having to deal with House. "And I've taken care of him each and every time he's lied to me or tried to manipulate me."

The young woman swallowed hard before saying, "This was different…. He didn't sound like himself, and I didn't –"

"I got it," Cuddy said quickly, Penny's words easily stealing away whatever irritation she felt.

As she slipped into her assistant's chair, she felt concern bubble inside of her, the emotion pooling in the pit of her stomach and back of her throat. She'd been suspicious of House at first, but now that she knew her assistant was worried, all of that hostility had fallen away to something much more troublesome.

Taking a deep breath, Cuddy picked up the phone. Concern in her voice, she quietly asked, "What's wrong?"

"You need to come home."

His hurried, strangled by emotion response was not the one she was prepared for. Nor was it one she liked. For a good portion of the past month, she had heard him speak like this – so completely upset and consumed by sadness and regret that he sounded like someone else, but she still wasn't used to hearing it.

"I need you to tell me what's wrong," she said in purposely soft tones.

"No."

His refusal made her sigh; it wasn't a good sign that he would ever let her in or confess to her what was bothering him. But nevertheless, she felt obligated to keep pressing him. "I'm not going to come home unless you give me a reason to," she told him in a voice that she hoped came across as firm but gentle. But when he didn't say anything, she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded; perhaps she'd just sounded threatening or shrill.

Sighing again, she asked, "Is it Cassandra?"

"Who?"

She rolled her eyes. "The woman I'm paying to look after you during the day," she said in a disappointed tone; as much as it didn't surprise her that he hadn't bothered to learn his nurse's name, she didn't particularly like it.

It certainly didn't make her feel as though he was making much of an effort to accept the woman into his life.

"Oh," he said eventually.

But that was all he said, and Cuddy had to wonder at that moment if there was something going on that she should know about. She'd vetted the hospice worker thoroughly enough to know that the woman didn't have a history of wrongdoing, of course, but…. If there was nothing going on between her and House, if she wasn't the problem, then he would have shot Cuddy down with multiple insults immediately.

That he hadn't…

Her stomach muscles tying themselves into knots, she asked again, this time more gravely, "Are you calling me because of your nurse?"

There was a brief moment of silence that only served to compound her concern. And she only felt worse when he answered, albeit hesitantly, "Yes."

Air getting caught in the back of her throat, it suddenly felt impossible to breathe. His revelation seemed to bind her ribs together tightly, so tightly that her lungs felt as though they were being squeezed harshly.

She felt light-headed, her guilt from earlier feeling like nothing compared to how she felt right now in this moment. Anxiety compelling her fingers to play with the phone chord, she licked her lips and told him in a rush, "Tell me what's going on."

His response was immediate this time, his voice equal parts childish resentment and disappointment. "She made me lunch."

Cuddy's immediate thought was that she must have been missing something. Making lunch for another person was nice, _thoughtful_. And though House liked to denigrate anything that had anything to do with human kindness, he was usually more favorable to such acts when he was the benefactor.

Her brow furrowing in confusion, she told him, "So?"

"She put _pickles_ on my sandwich."

He sounded deeply upset by that fact, but Cuddy couldn't help but sigh in relief at it. She wasn't entirely sure what she suspected was going on at House's apartment. Or rather, she wasn't certain that she wished to give her fears a name, feeling as though they might actually come true if she did voice them aloud. But either way, she was momentarily glad that the true problem, the _emergency_ he was calling about, involved pickles and little less.

And then her anger kicked in.

The second she realized that he was fine and he had interrupted her meeting, despite being fine, was the instant she wanted to kill him. Disdain lacing her tones, she asked, "This is about _pickles_? _That_ was your emergency?"

"I don't like them," he replied defensively. "And –"

"So then you tell her that you don't like them," she interrupted. Her frustration getting the better of her, she snapped, "You _don't_ call me and tell me to come home. I'm _not_ coming home for _pickles_."

"I don't like the girl you hired," he snapped back. "I'm going to fire her. Right now."

Cuddy was about to explain petulantly that she'd actually already foreseen this particular antic and had, as a result, told Cassandra that she was to ignore him when he tried to fire her. But Cuddy didn't have a chance to say any of that, because looking up, she could see her two potential donors craning their heads to try and figure out what was going on with the Dean of Medicine.

And knowing that it wouldn't look good if she began fighting with House over the phone, she forced herself to say calmly, "I know you're upset, but why don't you try asking her to make you a new sandwich?"

"She won't do it," he said hastily.

"Did you ask nicely?" She wasn't even sure why she was asking _that_; if he were capable of politeness, the legal department wouldn't have been so expensive to maintain. "Why don't you ask her to make you a sandwich without pickles and –"

"She already said she wouldn't. So I'm going to fire her." His tone left little room for discussion.

"You can't do that. I can't leave you alone –"

"Which is why you need to come home," he said in a way that made it sound like he'd been envisioning this part of the conversation from the second she'd picked up the phone.

And Cuddy wasn't sure if, when he pictured talking to her, he saw her dropping everything and running home to be with him. But then again, she didn't exactly care, because she wasn't leaving work for a problem _he_ was creating. "Listen to me," she said in a stern voice. "I know you don't like her, but right now, I'm in a meeting, and I _cannot_ come home. And you _cannot_ be alone, so you're just going to have to be a big boy and deal with her for a few more hours."

She waited for him to tell her that he didn't want to. She expected her half-patronizing, half-maternal voice to bring out the child in him even more. But he didn't say or do any of that.

He didn't say anything at all.

And perhaps she should have expected him to revert to the silent treatment since he'd been ignoring her for the better part of the last few days. But she hadn't, and she couldn't deny that she felt rather stupid for not having seen it. "So you're not going to talk to me now?"

"I was thinking," he replied, sounding rather annoyed by her conclusion. Which really _wasn't_ justified, considering how he'd been behaving. But before she could point that out, he said, "Fine. I'll… _deal _with her."

Truthfully, Cuddy wasn't sure what his definition of dealing with Cassandra was. On the other hand, Cuddy was absolutely convinced that she _didn't_ want to know. So she let it go, simply saying, "All right. We'll talk about this later… I have to go."

He gave a gruff "Whatever," before hanging up the phone.

It wasn't exactly the way she'd hoped to end the conversation, but at the moment, she was quickly able to make peace with it; she _did_ have donors sitting in the next room, their money just at her fingertips, and she needed to make the most of that before her opportunity disappeared.

Hanging up the phone, Cuddy obligatorily told her assistant, "Hold my calls."

And then she returned to her donors, an apology falling easily off of her tongue in the most sincere of ways. "I'm so sorry for the interruption."

"It's no problem," the female Coopersmith said, a warm smile appearing on her face.

And Cuddy was happy to feel the compassion heading her way. But to be frank, she would have been _happier_ to move past the interruption and get straight to the donating money part.

However, that seemed to be the last thing the strangers in her office wanted. They seemed intent on continuing to talk about the phone call she'd had to take, the other woman mentioning, "Before my youngest was born and I decided to become a stay-at-home mother, I had calls like that all the time; I love my oldest boy, but he always wanted me to come home to fix the smallest things."

There was an air of nostalgia surrounding the rich woman, an air Cuddy would have liked to have been able to appreciate. But it was one she couldn't indulge in, because she honestly had _no idea_ what the other woman was talking about.

Blinking Cuddy shook her head a little. "I'm sorry. I don't –"

"Well, we overheard you on the phone," the woman replied apologetically. "Not intentionally, of course, but I couldn't help but hear." The couple smiled at Cuddy. "I recognized the sound of a mother wanted in two places at once."

Oh.

Cuddy's eyes widened for a split second in disbelief. Although she'd always known House to be childish, she had no idea that a perfect stranger could somehow sense that immaturity without even hearing him speak. But after thinking about it for another moment or two, she decided quickly not to question it; letting this woman believe that Cuddy was talking to a child was far easier than explaining that the person on the other line was, actually, a fifty-year-old department head.

"Right. You caught me," Cuddy said with a short, nervous laugh.

She was sure that the way the air seemed to catch in the back of her throat gave her away. It just sounded too forced, even to her own ears, to be believable.

But the Coopersmiths were eager to eat up the lie, their smiles turning into broad grins. The woman smiling, she asked in a friendly manner, "How old are your kids? Or is it just the one?"

Cuddy's own smile morphed into something slightly more predatory, because it was at that moment that she realized she could use her donors' mistake to her advantage.

Contemplating briefly just how old House _acted_, she answered easily, "He's five… although sometimes he acts like a two year old."

The male Coopersmith, who had thus far remained silent, murmured his assent. "That sounds about right. Children get that way when their mother is always at work."

And though the sexism inherent in the comment didn't get past Cuddy, she deftly used it to her advantage. "I agree," she said empathically. "Which is why I've been working _so_ hard to get the oncology department the funds it needs through private meanings."

She forced herself to frown then, despite feeling as though the money was at the edge of her fingertips. "We typically hold an event here at the hospital to raise money for the department. But doing that again would mean even more time away from my son, and I just can't, in good conscience, do that unless it's a last resort."

The generous check was hers, she could tell, even before she'd finished speaking. Of that she had no doubt, because if there were one thing she knew how to do, it was lie. To herself, to others – it made no difference really. Both had allowed her to succeed, had given her an understanding of one incredibly painful but undeniable truth:

People didn't care about what lurked beneath, about what could be found in the darkest recesses of a person's soul. All they were interested in was the way things seemed on the surface, and as long as your presentation was flawless, they wouldn't bother to look at anything else. If House believed that everybody lied, then she believed that people only wanted the lie.

They wanted to hear that they looked thin in the dress that made them look fat. They wanted the allusion of a doctor in control of the medicine, even though illnesses were capable of the most treacherous forms of defeat.

They wanted an administrator who was perfect.

For every human being, there was a point when the truth became too frightening, too worrisome, so they seized hold of the lie.

And that was why these strangers were going to give her money and why Wilson could believe that his feelings for House, and her, could disappear the second he wanted them to. It was why House could think that treating her like crap would bring Wilson back and why she could write off House's childish behavior as only being a temporary side effect of his injuries.

It was why she could do her job and ignore the niggling feeling that told her something was very wrong.

The large check in her hands, Cuddy forced herself to smile as the Coopersmiths left. Concern over House, over what he might do to "handle" the hospice worker, threatened her good mood. In much the same way he wreaked havoc at work, his phantom endangered the tentative control she'd retaken over the hospital. But as tempting as it was to give into her fear, to run home and check on him, she refused to do it. She'd already decided that everything was and _would be_ okay.

And she was too good a liar to change her mind about that.

_End (13/15)_


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: Thank you so much to my beta for all of her help with this. Also thanks to HouseBroken, passionfornight, MadScientistGirl, TetraFish06, DoctorLisaCuddy, i luv ewansmile, ratka, w8ing4huddy, jwhite2199, MeggieGirl, and lhoma320. All of your reviews put a smile on my face and let me know that I was doing something right. I wouldn't be anywhere near the end of this piece without all of your encouragement, so thank you very much.

_Disclaimer: Not mine. _

**Edge of Chaos**  
**Chapter Fourteen: Chemicals, Dependants, and Everything in Between**_  
By Duckie Nicks_

"_In the beginning, there was nothing. Well, not quite nothing – more of a Nothing with Potential. A nothingness in which packets of energy fleeted in and out of existence, popping into oblivion as quickly as they appeared. One of these fluctuations had just enough energy to take off. It inflated wildly out of control – one moment infinitesimally small, moments later light-years across. All of space and time was created in that instant…. This baby universe kept expanding, over billions of years, and those particles coalesced into stars and planets and eventually humans" – "The Big Bang Theory," Source Unknown_

There were many times Foreman hated Cameron.

When she proved his theories wrong, when she slept with Chase and ruined the whole differential dynamic, when she interfered with his patients –_ yeah_, there were times when he_ hated_ her. But all of that seemed almost petty compared to the disgust he felt for her in this particular moment.

It had been building all day, all week actually. It had started when she'd first brought him the case. Although he'd recognized that she was trying to be nice, it hadn't really felt like an act of kindness. Because as much as he wanted to diagnose and save this ten-year-old girl, the shame of having to admit that Cuddy had rescinded his treatment privileges had made him resent Cameron for even bringing the matter up.

And maybe he could get past that fact if everything after that awkward conversation had gone his way.

But it hadn't.

First Cameron had gone to Cuddy and gotten their boss to okay giving him the case with the caveat of _Wilson_ being involved. Which Foreman probably could have handled if the oncologist's involvement had been _nominal_.

But it hadn't.

Wilson had come in – two days after the fact, mind you – and taken over everything. He'd exploited the team's current dynamics in order to gain control, and Foreman had been so appalled that he hadn't been able to accomplish that _himself_ that he'd barely been able to do his job for the last five hours.

Of course, it was possible that he would have been able to get over Wilson's presence if Cameron hadn't also decided that she'd wanted to get in on the action. But since she _had_ dipped her fingers into the pie, Foreman didn't really know how he would have reacted without her there. And at this point, it didn't really matter to him all that much; in the end Wilson and Cameron _were _a part of the diagnostics team, and it pissed Foreman off.

It _really_ did. Because even if Foreman could ignore the fact that their presence undermined his control over the department, he was still angered by two outsiders deciding randomly that they should get involved with the differential. Wilson didn't even _work_ in diagnostics, and Foreman was incredibly tempted to ask his colleague how it would feel if another unqualified doctor suddenly took over oncology.

But Foreman didn't ask that question, naturally. He was too busy trying to save his ten-year-old patient (and prove that she really did have an infection) to take the time to chat.

Besides, if he had taken the time, he would have been more interested in talking to Cameron. Unlike Wilson, she did have diagnostics experience; she'd worked for House for a little less time than Foreman himself had. But nevertheless it had been several years of dealing with House, which technically, Foreman supposed, made her qualified to treat this particular patient.

And yet her officiousness still bugged him.

The simple explanation would have been that his ego couldn't handle sharing control, and while he had no desire to deny that, he also couldn't deny that reality was more complicated than that. Or maybe not more complicated, because Foreman realized he could explain his irritation pretty easily. Very easily actually, because the truth looked something like this:

Cameron had quit.

Yes, he had as well, but he'd quit to be a diagnostician somewhere else. He'd quit, because he didn't want to be House, and he felt, even now, that there had been a nobility to that.

But her choice lacked the same shiny veneer of morality, because she'd left for Chase. She'd thrown in the towel to follow her boyfriend, whom she clearly didn't love all that much. She'd sacrificed a good thing for someone who wasn't so great in her eyes. She'd traded in an exciting job for one a monkey could do for a terrible reason.

So while they might have made the same decision to quit, Foreman felt that his choice was better than hers, had more dignity in it.

And it was for that reason that he truly opposed her presence in this; he didn't think she should be allowed to discard something so great so easily and then reclaim it whenever she wanted.

Of course, that didn't mean that Cameron wasn't annoying him for other reasons.

She definitely did.

Oh, she might have only decided to join in on the fun a couple hours ago, but it was already perfectly clear: she was annoying the hell out of him. Because aside from getting Wilson and herself involved, aside from her choice to quit in the past, there was the remaining fact that she too didn't feel that their patient had an infection.

If anything she'd actually agreed with Wilson about paraneoplastic syndrome. Even though the MRI had come up clean, both Wilson and Cameron had held onto the belief that there was cancer somewhere in this girl's body. They'd argued for micro tumors, for improbable problems with the MRI machine, for a second series of scans on the off chance that there'd been an error with the tests.

They'd been unwilling to let go of their diagnosis in order to see what was blatantly in front of them.

And at first Foreman had thought that Cameron was just siding with Wilson, because they shared the whole dead spouse thing. But Foreman knew Cameron well enough to know that that wouldn't be enough to kill someone over, so he thought that maybe she was trying to teach him a lesson by showing how ridiculous he was being about an infection.

However that hadn't seemed likely after an hour of back and forth that had ended with them all (besides Thirteen who had once again gone missing) trudging down to Cuddy's office. They'd barged in, a group of angry faces needing their boss to decide for them (as though she were the most qualified person to do that) once and for all what they should do.

Within ten minutes it had become immediately clear what they were _not_ allowed to do. "You're not breaking into someone's home," she'd snapped, her eyes narrowing on Kutner and Taub.

But Taub hadn't been willing to let it go. "You don't think it's a toxin or –"

"_I_ think it's more likely an infection or paraneoplastic syndrome," she'd cut off deftly. "And even if I believed the problem is a toxin, you're not breaking into a patient's home." Slapping the patient file on her desk, Cuddy had added, "And for future reference, if you _do_ wish to commit a crime, it would be best not to tell _me_, your _boss_, about it."

And that alone had made Foreman feel like this conversation was worthwhile; seeing his colleagues shot down like that had absolutely made his day, had made all the frustration seem worthwhile.

But then the differential had turned to paraneoplastic syndrome.

And now Foreman was more sure than ever that Cameron was one of the most annoying people he'd ever come across. Because it was bad enough that she'd gotten Wilson involved; it was bad enough that _she'd_ gotten involved. But that was nothing compared to what happened when Cuddy finished telling Wilson that she wasn't going to okay an exploratory surgery on a whim.

Wilson audibly scoffed at being shot down. His voice sounding not unlike a child being told no, he demanded, "Why not?"

"I'm not going to let you dig around a little girl's body when there are other theories you haven't ruled out yet," Cuddy said sharply.

Cameron shook her head immediately. "But that's the thing. We _know_ that it's not an infection or a toxin."

"The rest of your team, besides Wilson, disagrees," Cuddy replied.

But Cameron wasn't willing to give up that easily. "They're all trying to take control over the department by being the one who gets the diagnosis right. Wilson and I are the only ones who have no interest in impressing you; we _just_ want to help the patient."

As her comment washed over him, Foreman felt his anger and resentment for her build. His motives, he told himself in a vicious tone, were just as pure as hers were – maybe even more so, because at that moment, she flashed a sympathetic smile towards Wilson. And it became oh so clear that it really kind of _was_ about the whole dead spouse thing.

They'd bonded over it in some weird way, and Cameron was definitely here to protect _him_.

_Not_ to help their patient.

So Foreman spoke up. "We _all_ have things to lose and gain by either killing or saving this patient. Lets not act like any one of us is doing this out of pure altruism."

But his words were completely ignored, as Wilson demanded once more, "Why can't we do the surgery? You would let –"

"Don't you dare finish that thought," Cuddy warned in clipped tones.

The threat was audible in her words, and it wasn't hard to see then how an unassuming woman like Cuddy could become Dean of Medicine and Chief Administrator of the hospital; she knew how to command a room and demand the attention and obedience of everyone in it.

There was no room for discussion, no area for debate. Unless you wanted to have your head bitten off, it was understood that you were to shut up and let her make her point; Foreman knew that much, and he dutifully remained quiet, knowing that speaking would _not_ help his case.

"I know you think I give House special treatment," she said, breaking the tentative silence everyone else had fallen into. "But when he comes to me with the _medicine_ to back his claims up, I'm willing to take that leap of faith. And I will the same for you when you bring me the same amount of – "

"If House were here right now, you'd sign off on the surgery," Wilson snarled with certainty. "You wouldn't even hesitate."

Cuddy folded her arms across her chest and jutted her chin out in anger. "I think _I_ am the expert on knowing what I would or would not do in a given situation."

"You're having sex with him," Cameron interrupted, her tone holding just the slightest bit of disgust. "Of course, you're going to react differently to –"

"I am _not_ sleeping with House," Cuddy cut across.

And it was odd, Foreman thought; her voice contained the same strength it had earlier when she'd told Wilson that he shouldn't finish his train of thought.

But this time, no one seemed to be eager to take her word for it.

Of course, everybody had the good sense, it seemed, to stay quiet. But then again, nobody really _needed_ to say anything; their looks of disbelief said it all. So naturally Cuddy kept talking. Her hand shooting out as though she were reaching for Wilson, she told him, "I'm _not_ sleeping with House." She stressed each and every word greatly, a desperation in her voice that made it seem like she was genuinely worried about upsetting Wilson.

That fact made Foreman snort a little. As much as he understood that, out of all the people in the room, she was closest to Wilson, Foreman couldn't help but think that she should be worried about _everyone's_ opinion; each and every one of the individuals in this room could make or break her career with the information Cameron had unleashed. And as much as Cuddy's friendship with Wilson seemed to be on the line, Foreman thought she should be worried about her job at this point as well. Especially since Kutner and Taub, the two greatest gossipmongers in Princeton, were privy to this conversation, Foreman believed that she should be foreseeing an even more painful conversation with the board in the future. He thought she should be considering how easily she could be fired if this got out.

Which Foreman wouldn't really care about if it were just her career on the line. Seriously, if Cuddy being fired only affected her, he probably would have rejoiced at the opportunity to move up the PPTH career ladder.

But nothing had really changed since Cuddy had hired him back. Although Foreman wished something had, the fact still remained that his current boss was the only one with balls big enough to employ him these days. It had been almost a year, but the incident at New York Mercy would continue to be a big black stain on his record for much longer than that. And if Cuddy were fired, Foreman understood that he would also be done for; whomever the board replaced her with wouldn't be quite so daring or supportive. They might keep him until the first round of budgets came in and then do a little housekeeping by scratching him off of the payroll as quickly as possible.

Of that Foreman had no doubt.

And it scared him, although he didn't want to acknowledge the fear inside of him. So it was with hope and baited breath that he waited for Wilson to react.

But Wilson didn't.

He didn't speak or shake his head; he didn't storm out of the office or throw anything.

He just looked at Cuddy with sad dark eyes that seemed to be attempting to calculate just how honest she was being.

And that was when Cameron, being the officious bitch that she was, asserted her presence. "You can't deny it, Dr. Cuddy. I saw you with him."

The revelation made Kutner and Taub share an eager glance with one another, the kind of hungered look that people had when someone else's personal drama was about to get really interesting. So it came as no surprise that Kutner leaned forward on the couch to get a better look at the events unfolding.

"You saw me in his apartment," Cuddy pointed out. "Which is where I have said I would be for the last six, seven, weeks."

And Foreman breathed a sigh of relief. Because if that were really all the proof Cameron had, he was safe (for now, anyway).

"You were wearing his bathrobe," Cameron accused as though that were the smoking gun.

Foreman had to resist telling her with relish that it actually wasn't.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "When you came to the apartment, I'd been sleeping. You woke me up, and I grabbed the first thing I could to cover up," she explained easily. "Although it's probably a sign of respect in some cultures to answer the door in a sheer shirt -"

"That's hot," Kutner interrupted, earning him a dark glare from everyone in the room. Everyone's attentions now on him, he very quickly realized that _that_ was something he did _not_ want. Swallowing hard, he immediately added, "No. No, that's not hot. My bad. Keep talking."

Cuddy looked absolutely livid at the remark, but luckily for Kutner, Cameron drew the attention back to herself. "House _admitted_ it."

At that point, Kutner and Taub actually gasped, the conversation unfolding before them not entirely different than the soap operas they sometimes watched in the doctor's lounge. But if they were excited, Cuddy seemed to be anything but.

"House says a lot of things," she defended. "He once claimed that he brought a prostitute to the hospital to... service him." She scowled at the memory but pressed forward. "_He_ was the one who started the rumor about me being a hermaphrodite," she seethed.

She looked like she was about to say more, but Taub piped up, "If you ever need someone to verify that…"

"You are _married_," Cuddy snapped in irritation. And thankfully for all of them, her ire was enough to shut Taub up and prevent them all from witnessing an awkward moment involving Cuddy undressing for Taub.

Returning to the topic at hand, Cuddy said, "The day before Wilson's third bachelor party, he claimed to have found a woman who could give herself oral sex." Cuddy's eyes lit up with the spark of memory, and quickly she added, "The day after Wilson's second bachelor party, House tried to convince me that something illegal had happened with a _duck_."

Foreman, Kutner, and Taub shifted their gazes immediately to look at Wilson. And though it was obvious that Cuddy didn't believe the rumor House had tried to start, it was just as plain to see that he hadn't been making that up.

Wilson looked too guilty for that to be the case.

So much for avoiding an awkward moment, Foreman lamented to himself.

"House _lies_," Cuddy said, arriving to her point finally. "He makes things up to get a rise out of people, which is why he told you that we were sleeping together."

"I love Chase," Cameron retorted in a way that wasn't going to convince anyone. "And House knows that, so if he was just trying to upset _me_, then he wouldn't have said _that_."

Cuddy scoffed. "_Right_. You don't feel _anything_ for House. You just chose to bring up the idea that I'm sleeping with him, because of… why exactly?"

"Actually," Wilson said, speaking up for the first time in minutes. "I believe _I'm_ the one who brought it up."

At that moment, Cameron looked at him gratefully, as though he had just spared her a potentially very damaging conversation. Which was probably true, Foreman conceded; knowing how wishy-washy she really was about Chase, there was a good chance that Cuddy pressing Cameron would result in Cameron admitting that she really didn't love Chase as much as she should have.

"That's right," Cameron agreed eagerly. "I didn't bring it up. I was just trying to help Wilson prove a point."

Cuddy took a step closer to the other woman. "Then let me prove mine," she said in a dangerous voice that threatened despite being barely above a whisper. "I'm not sleeping with House. He's had an _incredibly_ traumatic accident made worse by the fact that he had surgery on his injured _brain_. He is in no condition to do any of the things he would probably like to claim we've done together."

She paused to let her words sink in before reiterating, "We are _not _sleeping together. But even if we were, I would hold him to the standards that I'm holding you: I need _proof._ Give it to me definitively, show me that it's cancer, and you can do your surgery."

Wilson shook his head. "We don't have time to find the proof you want. We're doing the surgery now."

"Then I'm going to have to put a security guard outside of that little girl's room," Cuddy said defiantly.

She didn't bother to explain why that would be a threat, but she didn't exactly need to; they all understood that they'd have no chance of sneaking their patient out and wheeling her to surgery.

Wilson looked at her in amazement. "You're going to kill her," he warned.

"No," she snapped back. "_You_ are if you can't find the evidence you need to diagnose her."

And it was clear to Foreman and probably to everyone else in the room that the conversation was over. Cuddy wasn't going to let them do the surgery or break into anyone's home, and since they couldn't take their patient out of the room, it seemed like she'd chosen to go down the path Foreman had suggested.

Which he obviously liked quite a bit, because he'd been arguing that it had been an infection this entire time. Of course, he was the only in the room who seemed thrilled by the end of the conversation, but Foreman didn't particularly care about that. Instead he smiled and stood up and tried to once more rally the team behind him by saying, "Okay. Thanks for your time, Dr. Cuddy."

"We're not done here," Wilson said bitterly, holding his hands up in the air to halt Kutner and Taub who had stood up as soon as Foreman had.

"Oh, yes, we are," Cuddy replied smoothly. "You're not getting the surgery, and frankly, if you stay any longer, you're also not going to have any of your treatment privileges." She smiled as she warned them, her face devoid of any joy or happiness.

And though Foreman expected Wilson to continue to fight, he didn't. In fact, Wilson seemed to capitulate at the threat, easily caving. "You're right," he said apologetically. "You're right."

Cuddy looked at him as though he'd lost his mind; she too was clearly expecting a fight and was even more obviously surprised to have not gotten one. Her mouth slightly agape, she looked as though she wanted to say something. But unfortunately for her, she never got a chance.

Wilson was already out the door before she had the opportunity to utter a single word.

Quickly the rest of the team followed suit, because nobody cared to stick around for Cuddy's reaction. At least Foreman assumed as much as that was _his_ reason for shooting out the door.

But he very quickly deduced, within seconds of leaving actually, that everyone also had other motives. Because they'd barely made it out of the clinic, their large group uncomfortably making its way through a throng of would-be patients, before Wilson started talking. "She needs that surgery."

Cameron nodded her head. "I'll get Chase; you get our patient and her parents' consent before Cuddy has a chance to get a guard at the door."

As far as plans went, this one wasn't particularly imaginative. If anything, it was a pretty dumb one, its success hindering on how quickly those two could move. But as Foreman didn't believe the diagnosis involved cancer, he could live with the stupidity of their plan and rightfully chose to keep his mouth shut.

Unfortunately Taub did not.

"You're going to operate on her, even though Cuddy said -"

"Cuddy wants results," Wilson pointed out knowingly, as Cameron scurried away to, apparently, go get Chase. "She likes to pretend that she cares about the ethics, but you've seen her shove all of that aside." Kutner opened his mouth to protest, but Wilson stopped him. "Look. If something goes wrong, she's going to come after me. That much should be very clear to all of you. It's not going to be _your _jobs on the line."

"And our patient's life?" Taub posed the question calmly with just a hint of derision. "We just ignore that her _life_ is -"

"We're doing the surgery," Wilson replied stubbornly. "And in the meantime, you and Kutner should break into their home. Just in case."

Kutner's eyes widened. "You want us to -"

"If I'm right, then she's okay. If it's a toxin, then we're ahead of the game," Wilson said in an assured tone that Foreman recognized as dangerous. As important as it was to follow through on your ideas, as useful as hunches could be, Wilson's convictions were blinding him to everything else.

Granted, in this light, Foreman realized that it wasn't just the oncologist who'd been acting like this all day. Foreman himself was guilty of it as well, his mind clinging to the notion of an infection as though there were no other possibilities.

But he believed - or at least _wanted_ to believe - that there were differences between Wilson and himself. Unlike Wilson, Foreman wasn't recommending, much less performing, a dangerous surgery. And he certainly wasn't going to do it while duping the one person who was willing to take risks when the situation warranted it. Which was why he shook his head no when Wilson looked at him and asked, "Are you willing to help me prep her for surgery?"

As Kutner and Taub rushed to the elevator, presumably so they could go to the office and get their things, Wilson and Foreman stood in the lobby in silence. In _disappointed_ silence, Foreman corrected after a split second; although Wilson wasn't saying anything, Foreman could tell that his colleague was upset by the rejection.

And for a reason Foreman didn't really understand, he immediately worked to amend the tense situation. "I don't think you're right for doing this. But -"

Wilson sneered. "You don't agree with my diagnosis. You think an _infection_ is still the answer, despite the fact that our patient hasn't responded to any antibiotics."

"That's not what this is about," Foreman said, shaking his head slowly. "I _don't_ think you're right about the diagnosis. But my bigger problem is going behind our _boss's_ back."

"Don't worry about Cuddy. She'll get over it," Wilson replied breezily in a way that suggested that he didn't care if she did either way.

"She's done a lot for me," Foreman acknowledged. She really had, and he knew that much; to be honest, each time he helped House or anyone else collude, he felt a little guilty for doing it. And maybe it was a bad time to change his mind, especially since he'd always kind of liked Wilson. But seeing the older man act so... childishly, so _selfish_ and inconsiderate... well, it made Foreman rethink his own behavior.

"I won't tell her what you're doing - on the off chance that you're right," he said, knowing that it was the most he could do. "But I'm not being a part of it."

Wilson clenched his jaw but only uttered a terse "Fine."

Clearly though things weren't going to be fine between them, regardless of how the case resolved itself. Foreman recognized that, although, at this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be right or wrong about the diagnosis in the end. After everything that had happened today, he just didn't know if it was better to let the surgery occur, knowing that it was the wrong course of treatment, or to let it happen, have Wilson be right, and end up being in the wrong.

Thinking about it for a few seconds, he realized easily that it didn't matter how it ended; he was going to feel terrible either way.

And faced with a lose-lose situation like that, Foreman did the one thing that would help him cope the fasted: he headed for one of the many nearby bars.

But it wasn't to get _drunk_. Although it was four-thirty in the afternoon and close enough to happy hour, he didn't feel like spending the rest of his day hunkered down in a booth made of well-worn oak with a frosty mug in his hands. As much as this day had probably deserved that kind of ending, Foreman had another pick-me-up in mind. Because as good as beer was, it really couldn't compete with the way hearing other people bitched about _their_ lives made Foreman feel.

Pausing in his train of thought, he realized how awful it all sounded. He was making it seem as though he _enjoyed_ other people's pain, which wasn't the case; he didn't take pleasure in knowing that others were miserable or anything like that. It was just that there _was_ something about hearing other people whine that put Foreman's own problems into perspective.

Again, it wasn't about relishing their pain. Nor was it about comparing his own issues with theirs; there was no thinking, "Oh, I'm much better off than they are," or anything like that.

Truly, there was just one thing that Foreman got from listening to other people complain about their lives, and that was the reminder that _nothing_ in life was worth the humiliation of whining to a complete stranger about your life. Things could be bad, _awful_ even, but none of it ever warranted relinquishing your pride for someone's _pity_.

And though it had taken him a long time to realize that fact, he _had_ come to accept the truth: your pride mattered.

Very few people would agree with him, of course. Foreman might not have known for sure what was wrong with his patient, but he _was_ smart enough to know that much. Because it was also a fact that everyone was taught as a kid that pride was a bad thing, a sin even, and it was hard to ignore the things that had been ingrained in you for an unwelcome reality.

But it was a reality nevertheless, one that he liked to be reminded of when he felt his world spinning out of control and the answers he desperately needed remaining out of his reach. And he would use this trip to the bar to do just that – remind him of what mattered in the world. He would use the drunken patrons bitching about their lives to remind him of just how important it was to maintain control of his emotions.

And he wouldn't feel bad about it.

He used to, to be honest, but he'd very quickly learned that the people he talked to didn't care. If anything, they were using him as much as he was using them; they saw him as a kind, sympathetic ear to blather on to, and that was all they really cared about.

So why should he feel bad?

Unfortunately what Foreman hadn't counted on was the guilt he could feel when the person he was using was someone he knew.

The second he entered the bar, he regretted choosing this particular dive. Because even though she was sitting in a booth in the back corner, it was impossible to miss Thirteen miserably nursing a scotch. She might have been going for inconspicuous, but Foreman couldn't help but think that she'd failed. After all, she _was_ the only woman in the bar, so it was kind of hard not to notice her among the beer bellies and thick beards.

But then that also seemed to apply to _him_, as he was the only one wearing a freshly pressed suit and the only one with dark skin. And oh yeah, he was the only one who had the awareness sobriety brought with it. And although none of those things made him want to leave, when Thirteen's gaze caught sight of him, _that_ did.

Her eyes trained on him and his trained on her, there was no turning back. As much as part of him wanted to leave, he knew that he couldn't. She'd clearly seen him, and walking out the door now would only make an awkward conversation in the future inevitable.

Besides, there was no real reason why he _couldn't_ use her as his reminder. He'd never done it before, but that didn't mean it would necessarily end _badly_. And considering she was bringing her problems into work by disappearing for hours, days, and even weeks at a time, Foreman wondered if talking to her wouldn't also solve that annoying problem. He didn't know how likely it was that she wanted to talk, but if he could get her to tell him what was wrong, then maybe he could make it better. Or at least, maybe he could make it better _enough_ that she started doing her job again.

As he thought it over a little more, he kept coming back to the idea that this really was a win-win situation. He looked for a way for this to fail, but he couldn't spot one; even if he learned more about Thirteen than he cared to know, he doubted her problems would be so exciting, so_ troubling_ that he couldn't forget them.

His decision made, he confidently made his way to her booth. His voice low so that only she could hear him, he asked, "Mind if I join you?"

Thirteen shrugged in a tense sort of way. Her shoulders moved up and down awkwardly as though she couldn't quite manage the ease she wanted to have. What she said to him in response to his question didn't help either. "That's fine," she said in a flat tone. "Did Wilson kick you off the team too?"

His eyes widening in surprise, Foreman slid into the booth across from her. Of all the things he expected her to say, that wasn't one of them. And though he'd hoped that she would be the one to renew his spirit, he quickly realized that if Wilson really had removed her from the team, his misery was just beginning. "He kicked you off the team?"

"Not in so many words," she admitted. "But he made it very clear that the only one in the room who could be affected by their personal problems was _him_. So I left." She gave him a small smirk before taking a swig of scotch. "Why'd you leave?"

He must have looked taken aback by the question, because Thirteen pressed, "I assume you don't like to visit bars in the middle of the afternoon for the fun of it. So why'd you leave?"

"Wilson's going to perform exploratory surgery against Cuddy's direct orders," he explained simply.

"And you don't want to be seen as an accomplice when our boss finds out," Thirteen deduced, as he waved a waitress, who was visibly pregnant, in leather chaps over to take his drink order.

"I'd rather not have Cuddy on top of me for something I didn't agree with to begin with," he replied.

Not missing a beat, Thirteen asked him, the corners of her mouth turned upward in the barest hint of a smile, "Why not? Cuddy's pretty hot. It'd be fun to be underneath her."

"Not when she's ripping my balls off."

Of course, as luck would have it, it was at that moment that the waitress managed to waddle over to him. Placing his order – a Sam Adams Summer Ale – in a choked voice, he forced himself to ignore the way Thirteen was beginning to chuckle over her own drink. If he didn't do that, he would either start to laugh with her or become annoyed that she was laughing at all. And neither were going to be particularly conducive to getting his reminder, so he spoke to the stranger only what was necessary, ignoring Thirteen as best as he could.

Finally, when the waitress left, Foreman asked in an annoyed voice, "You enjoying this?"

"A little bit, yeah."

They shared a small smile that left him feeling uncomfortable. A faked connection that he could exploit was one thing, but the intimacy contained in such a tiny act was another. And it left him squirming a little in the booth, the leather making odd noises with each shift of his weight, before he got back to his original reason for being here. "Now you know why I'm here. But I still don't know why you are," he said pointedly.

"I told you," Thirteen said tersely, offering the waitress a forced smile of thanks when she brought back Foreman's beer.

"You implied that your personal problems were getting in the way, and Wilson didn't like that. You never actually said what those problems were."

It was not, admittedly, the most tactful way of putting things. Of all the words he could have chosen, he knew those were not the nicest, the most inconspicuous, or the least threatening. And so it came as no surprise that Thirteen rebuffed his advances. "Well, I know I'm supposed to confess to the deepest, darkest secrets that I have, but I think I'll pass this time."

But although he expected her response, he still couldn't help but be annoyed by it; acting like she didn't want people to know her issues when she clearly did – it was all a ruse he didn't feel like wasting time on. "Yeah," he said sarcastically. "Cause this public of display of my-life-is-so-miserable-I-need-to-drink-in-the-middle-of-the-day doesn't beg people to ask what's wrong."

She rolled her eyes, clearly unamused by his deduction. "I felt the need to get drunk. That's not exactly a _display_ of anything... other than a testament to liver function." Swallowing another long sip of booze, she added as an afterthought, "And when I go home with one of the guys here, that's not a cry for help either."

Foreman glanced around the room distastefully. Who the hell was she going to go home with? Out of the small crowd of people, the person that looked the most attractive was the guy, who looked as though he hadn't showered in a week, digging around the bar nuts as though treasure were at the bottom of the dish.

Turning to look at Thirteen once more, Foreman told her, "No, sleeping with one of these men would be proof that you have no _taste_."

She nodded her head. "I felt the same way when you were banging that nurse in radiology."

"She wasn't my best," he conceded. "But I stand by my choice. In addition to working in radiology, she taught those classes at Princeton Gym – you know, the workouts that involve women dancing on stripper poles?" Foreman had to swallow back a sigh of contentment at the memory of Becky and all that she knew how to do…

He shook his head to clear the thought from his mind before adding, "She wasn't the hottest, but she could do things with her thigh muscles that would make –"

"And how do you know that the guys in here don't have similar hidden talents?"

But Thirteen's question kind of answered itself. Simultaneously they both looked around the room, hoping to find the prince dressed like a frog… only to see a room full of 100% amphibians. No one – not one of the men in the joint – seemed to have hidden qualities, and Foreman relished in that fact (it meant he wasn't wrong).

His gaze settling back on Thirteen, he said nothing; his smile said all that he needed to say.

"Fine," she capitulated. "You've made your point. I'll just go to a different bar when I'm done here."

He looked at her carefully at that moment, his fingers toying around the lip of his mug. He didn't know her that well; it was the way she wanted it, of course. But he couldn't help but feel like this was out of character for her. And he didn't know if that was because she was playing him or because there really was something bad going on in her life.

Wondering what the truth was, Foreman was about to ask her straight up what was going on. But he stopped himself from doing so before he'd even had a chance to open his mouth. Because he realized, albeit belatedly, that he _knew_ what the answer was.

Taking a sip of beer, he understood intuitively that this was more than a ruse.

This was real.

And it was nothing new.

She'd disappeared for a while right after Cutthroat Bitch had died, and when Thirteen had come back, she'd been just as distant, just as out of character as she was being now. And although he couldn't name the cause, he was convinced that something very real was going on with her.

But before he had an opportunity to say that to her, she interrupted irritably, "This is the part where you try and dissuade me from doing something stupid."

"Is it?" The uninterested lull in his voice made it absolutely clear that he wasn't seriously asking the question. "Because I'm thinking that you've spent the last month and a half or so perfecting this whole act and –"

"This isn't an act," she snapped.

He rolled his eyes and put his elbows on the table to lean forward. "I'm not saying your pain isn't real," he told her with sincerity. "But if you didn't want to talk about it, you wouldn't put it out there like you've been doing since Amber died." Pausing for dramatic effect, Foreman eventually added, "Either talk or don't. It doesn't really bother me one way or the other. But whatever's wrong has _clearly_ been eating away at you. So if you're _really_ looking for someone to talk to, I'd do it now – _before_ you annoy everyone else into not caring."

His words were met with silence – heavy, unyielding silence. And he didn't need to think about why that was, because he understood all too well how cool his words had been. He hadn't been intentionally cruel, but there was no denying that he hadn't been particularly kind to Thirteen.

So it was no surprise that she responded with an equally vicious tone. "You act like I _demanded_ you to care, like I _forced_ you to ask how I was doing."

"I work with you every day," he defended. "And in case you haven't noticed, lately, you've been pretty terrible at your job. So –"

"This is about you and work and impressing Cuddy," Thirteen finished in a voice that didn't sound all that surprised.

"No," he said hastily. Although he couldn't deny that that was part of it, the way her behavior was screwing him over wasn't his point. "All I'm saying is that you're not going through this alone. What you're doing has an effect on other people." As an afterthought, he willingly conceded, "Yes, that includes me. But my point is you are affecting other people. So you can either use that to your advantage or keep doing what you're doing until no one cares."

To be honest, Foreman was glad to see her mouth shut and her eyes glaze over in the sort of way only possible when you were weighing the pros and cons of a particular action. At least those things meant that she was _considering_ what he was saying.

And as she did so, he couldn't help but recognize that his whole reason for being here had shifted. When he'd come to the bar, he'd intended to use someone to remind him that his pride was more important than someone else's pity.

He still believed that to be true, of course. But for whatever reason, seeing Thirteen… well, it had made him realize, at some point in the conversation, that her issue was more important than anything else at the moment. It was more important than re-learning a lesson, more important than escaping Wilson's stink and Cuddy's wrath.

Thirteen's problem was something Foreman needed to address on its own terms – not just because it affected him, but because he knew her well enough to know that something was seriously wrong. And that he should have ever aimed to use her troubles for his own benefit…

It made him feel worse than he'd ever thought possible.

It made him every bit the opportunist he'd never really wished to be.

So he supposed it was the appropriate punishment that Thirteen should finally confess to her problems, that she should amplify that achy guilt inside of him by saying in a soft voice, "I have Huntington's."

He blinked.

He swallowed.

Both muscle contractions were slow and forced, and if the situation weren't so serious, he would allow himself to make (to himself only, of course) the dark, offensive comment that he was acting like someone with Huntington's chorea.

But as things were, he couldn't make such a joke… or any other remark; her admission was too stark, too serious for him to know what to say in response. All he knew was what her future entailed:

A long, drawn out, humiliating death.

And he didn't know what would be the bigger blessing – to get the symptoms sooner or to go through most of your life relatively physically well while knowing what _had_ to happen to you.

He didn't ask.

He didn't say anything at all.

But then again, he didn't exactly have a chance to do that, because it was at that moment that his cell phone rang. And as much as he didn't want to answer it, the ring tone signaled that it was the hospital calling. Which meant he had no choice.

Glancing sympathetically towards Thirteen, he explained, "I have to take this." She nodded her head in understanding before heading towards the bar. But somehow that didn't make him feel any better. If anything he just felt worse for having to interrupt their conversation for something that seemed so… distant at this point (even though it really wasn't).

And so it really came as no surprise that he felt even more awful when the person on the other end of the phone was Cuddy's assistant. "Dr. Cuddy needs to see you. Now," she told him in a voice that was just forceful enough to make him imagine how angry _Cuddy_ was.

Swallowing a sip of his beer, Foreman asked, "Why? What happened?"

"Dr. Wilson just killed your patient," the assistant replied. "She wants you here now… and Dr. Foreman, she was really angry, so…"

"Yeah. I'll be there," he muttered, reaching for his wallet. As he flipped through the contents to grab a few bills, Thirteen sat back down. "I have to go," he told her quickly. "Wilson killed our patient."

He wasn't sure how he expected her to react. But when Thirteen just shrugged, he felt distinctly ill at ease by the gesture. Or maybe he just felt bothered by his own inability to finish this conversation right now. "I'm sorry," he apologized abruptly, knowing how lame it sounded.

Of course, that paled in comparison to how lame his next words sounded. "Do you… want to continue this later?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, I'm good."

It was hard to say how sincere she was being, and it was even harder to let the comment go because of time. Honestly, there was nothing that Foreman wanted to do more at the moment than to sit and talk to her about her diagnosis.

But there wasn't time for it, because he still had a job to do.

Standing up, he asked her, "Should we go then?"

"No." And indeed, she made no move to stand up with him, instead choosing to nurse her scotch slowly.

"No?" He repeated the word in confusion, his mouth moving oddly as he parroted her response.

She shrugged once more. "No point really. I'm gonna stay and get drunk, I think." Her gaze shifted from him to focus on everyone else in the room, her line of sight never staying in the same direction for more than a few seconds at a time. Although he couldn't say for sure, it was felt as though she were assessing the situation, trying to decide where her place in all of this was. And unfortunately for him (and for her as well), Thirteen made the choice to stay exactly where she was. "I'm good," she told him after a few seconds.

At that moment, he realized he should say something to stop her from doing this – from drowning in self-pity and ruining what few good years she would have in life. But everything he thought of, every possible thing he could tell her, just sounded like a useless platitude, a cliché that she would never accept. And coming from him, the words would sound even more empty, he realized, because he hadn't ever bothered to be her friend in order to gain the benefit of the doubt.

So he had no choice but to nod his head and capitulate. "Okay. See ya."

He grabbed his things and turned to leave. But as he did so, Thirteen told him, almost as though it were meant to be a conciliatory gesture, "You were right, you know. It probably was an infection."

And though he believed she was trying to be nice by agreeing with him then, Foreman could only resent her in that moment. Because she was ruining her own life, and a patient had died, and…

_Some_ of that pain had been avoidable.

Some of it _was_ still avoidable if she were to accept what was going to happen to her.

But he already knew that that was an argument he would probably _never_ convince her of, so he gritted his teeth and left.

By the time Foreman got to the hospital, Wilson had suffered through three rounds of fighting with Cuddy. She'd screamed at him when she'd been notified that his ten-year-old patient had been removed from her room. She'd shouted at him from the observatory room as he, mistakenly thinking the O.R. was a safe place to hide, had assisted Chase in the exploratory surgery. And she'd nearly broken everyone's eardrums in the vicinity when she'd yelled at him ten minutes after his patient had flat lined and passed away.

Yes, Foreman had missed rounds one through three, but he was absolutely around for round four. And though the younger man was sure to get his share of the blame, Wilson wasn't sure that he wanted him around to see Cuddy humiliate him (again) either.

Of course, it didn't matter. They – Taub, Kutner, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron – were all crammed into Cuddy's office, each subtly trying to inch towards the door while more obviously blaming everything on someone else.

"Taub and I were at the patient's house," Kutner, his eyes wide and fearful, tried to explain. "So –"

"If you are trying to avoid punishment by admitting to doing something _else_ I forbid, I would _seriously_ rethink that argument," Cuddy said angrily.

At the moment, she was leaning against her desk, but there was nothing casual about her demeanor. Her fingers grasped the lip of the desk so tightly that her knuckles were white – a stark contrast to the angry blush that had spread over the rest of her skin. Her lips alternated between a deep frown and a furious sneer, and the common thread throughout was that she was seething with rage.

Rage that _nobody_ – not even Wilson himself – wished to set off.

"Did he say our patient's house? Because he meant we were out to lunch," Taub said nervously. Cuddy's stare fixed itself on him, much in the same way an eagle watched its prey. "Nevermind," he added quickly, the words not being taken back soon enough. "We… nevermind."

But it was too late for them. "Two weeks clinic duty for both of you," she snapped before motioning for Taub and Kutner to get out.

As they scurried out of the room as quickly as possible, Cuddy turned her attentions to Foreman. "Why didn't _you_ tell me what was going on?"

Wilson looked at the other man to see what he would say. For incredibly childish reasons, Wilson wanted to hear Foreman make up some stupid excuse… only to have Cuddy give him a tongue lashing; after all, if she were to scream herself into exhaustion now, she'd have a harder time mustering up the energy to give Wilson the verbal beating he knew he deserved.

It was funny how it worked out that way, he thought to himself as Cuddy began shouting at Foreman; Wilson had been _so_ sure that the problem was cancer, _so_ sure that he would be better at this than House.

But he wasn't better than anyone.

He was probably wrong about the cancer. They didn't know definitely yet, because the resident who practically lived in the morgue (and who had been nicknamed Frankenstein by the rest of the staff for his profession and lanky stature) hadn't examined the little girl yet. But Wilson was convinced that the autopsy would show something – _anything_ – other than cancer.

Not for any _medical_ reason, his conviction was based completely on a hunch that, as things never went his way, they wouldn't change now. And though his patient was dead no matter what, being completely wrong about the diagnosis would be the extra kick in the balls he didn't need… so it was incredibly likely to happen.

The universe apparently wanting to lend credence to that idea, Wilson was pulled from his thoughts just in time to hear Foreman say, "Next time you want the _diagnostics_ team to work on a case, don't put someone who's unqualified in charge."

"Considering the only person apparently qualified to do _that_ job is on medical leave, I did the best I could," Cuddy defended.

It was an insult just biting enough to make everyone left in the room flinch from it.

Throwing his words back at him, Cuddy added, "Next time you think _you_ should run the department, try keeping the patient _alive_ instead of your own career afloat." Her hands moving to her hips, she warned him, "Because if you keep screwing up like this, I can assure you – you won't have one much longer."

Foreman looked as though he'd been slapped in the face, as though he hadn't been expecting such harsh words from Cuddy. And maybe she hadn't been expecting them either, because for whatever reason, her tone immediately softened. "Just go, Eric," she told him, the words hushed and almost _kind_. Which given the circumstances was _odd_.

Yet, with Foreman leaving (his normally confident stride slightly filled with shame), there was no time to consider just how bizarre her change in demeanor was. Because as the number of people in the room decreased, the chances of Cuddy killing Wilson increased.

And he was_ painfully_ aware of that fact.

Cuddy turned her attentions to Chase and Cameron, and Wilson hoped once more that his boss would tire herself before she had a chance to shout at him.

But it seemed unlikely that that would happen, because before she'd even had the opportunity to say anything to Chase, he held up his hands and stopped her. "Before you yell at me, you should know that I wasn't privy to the conversation you seem to have had with everyone else." His eyes sliding over to look at Cameron darkly, he told Cuddy, "And from now on, you should instruct your staff to refrain from manipulating me for their own purposes."

It was obvious that, even though he'd been talking to Cuddy, the words had been meant for Cameron. And Wilson thought you'd have to be an idiot to believe that what Chase had been saying _hadn't_ had its intended effect.

Immediately Cameron looked over at her boyfriend, anger and betrayal held in both of their heated gazes. They didn't say anything to one another in that moment.

Their looks said it all.

And in the end, it wasn't surprising that Chase turned away after glaring at her for a moment. Seemingly barely able to be in the same room with her any longer, he barged out of Cuddy's office. His footsteps hurried, he furiously stomped through the clinic with Cameron hot on his heels.

She kept calling his name. But he must not have stopped, because all Wilson could hear was the word – "Chase" – being repeated over and over as they disappeared into the belly of the hospital.

Although Chase and Cameron probably didn't know it at the time, Wilson knew – having been in his fair share of relationships – that this event would permanently alter the way they looked at one another. Even if (and it was a big if at this point) they stayed together after this, they would never trust each other in the same way. He would never be able to _truly_ believe her when she said she needed his professional help. Not that it really mattered, because she would never feel comfortable again going to him when she needed something.

In other words, they were essentially ruined, their relationship permanently marred by this case and the decisions they'd all individually made during it.

But the common thread behind all of it was Wilson _himself_.

_He'd_ been the one to sway Cuddy into giving them the case. _He'd_ been the person who insisted on cancer and the one who pushed for the surgery.

He'd been the one to kill a ten-year-old girl.

And that fact made it impossible for him to answer Cuddy when she turned to him and asked, "What the hell were you thinking?"

There was no response running through his mind, no quick quip or ready retort to toss her way, and so he could only stand there. Part of him hoping that she would _eviscerate_ him, he waited for her to say something, waited for her to condemn him.

He didn't deserve anything else.

And he hoped that she would just get it over with – that she would just punish him and be done with, because he didn't want the opportunity to get angry or defensive; he didn't want a way out.

But Cuddy seemed almost content to give him one, because instead of yelling at him, she just insistently asked, "Well?"

Clearing his throat, he asked, dazed, "Well what?"

"_Why_ did go against my _express_ wishes?"

She wasn't as angry as he thought she would be. In his mind, her question should have been dripping with fury and frustration, but it wasn't; it was just laced with confusion and a yearning to understand.

It was proof that she wanted to believe him… maybe even wanted a way to defend him.

And the odd thing for him was that, as much as he'd wanted both of those things from her before, he didn't want either now.

So he gave her no explanation, instead shaking his head a little and muttering, "I don't know… I thought I could save her."

Naturally Cuddy pressed further. Moving quickly towards him, she stood in front of him, disbelief and concern flitting through her light irises. "That's not an answer," she told him in sad tones.

Immediately he shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Cuddy?"

"I want you to explain to me why you felt the need to disregard my orders," she replied quickly. "I want you to tell me _why_ you were _so_ convinced you were right. Because I don't see it."

"Then fire me," he suggested as though the idea didn't pain him.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to _fire_ you." Reaching out to touch his forearm, she gently told him, "I want to _protect_ you, and I can't do that if you don't trust me to do that."

"Then don't." As he pulled his arm away from her, he added, "Don't protect me."

At that moment, she looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. And frankly, if he hadn't felt so guilty, Wilson thought that he probably would have agreed with her.

"You don't mean that," she declared.

His response was a breezy "Sure, I do."

"_No_." Shaking her head, Cuddy clearly couldn't process what he was telling her. The words were something she could understand in and of themselves, but in the context, she was obviously confused. "No," she repeated. "No, you _don't_ mean that. Just _hours_ ago – this _entire time_ actually – you've accused me of not doing the same things for you that I would for House."

She looked affronted by the idea of favoritism, so it came as no surprise to Wilson that she said, "Well, here I am, doing for you _exactly_ what I would be doing if House were behind this."

And though Wilson was sure that this news was supposed to comfort him, was supposed to gain her his trust, it did the opposite. Because the way she made him feel was… _used_; if anything it just proved to him that her show of support was exactly that: a _show_.

Angrily, he asked her, "So this is to prove a point?"

"My _point_ is that I'm trying to do exactly what you said you needed from me," she responded quickly, stressing each and every syllable as she did so, probably to show him just how much she meant it.

But he could only scoff at the sentiment. Even if she really was being earnest about it, and he guessed that she was, Wilson was in no position to accept it. "I _killed_ someone," he replied forcefully. "I don't want you to hold my hand. You _shouldn't_. I _killed_ someone," he repeated, as though the more he said it, the more she would understand.

To be honest, though, trying to get her to appreciate what had happened seemed like an impossible task. For whatever reason, the anger she'd been so willing to display towards everyone else seemed to have evaporated. And although he'd said the words out loud – he'd killed someone – she didn't get mad; she just looked at him sadly. "We're doctors," she explained in gentle tones. "Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes… we make the wrong call. It happens – to _all_ of us."

But that didn't comfort him, not in the least.

He'd _murdered_ someone.

And nothing she was saying eased the nervous, calamitous guilt coursing through his veins. Her words, no matter how well intentioned, couldn't touch the overwhelming knowledge inside of him that had him so wracked with horror that his hands actually shook.

"Don't," he warned as he started to pace around the room. His fingers curling into the palms of his hands, he said, "Don't try to make it sound like I just made a _mistake_."

She was on his heels, following him as he walked aimlessly in the small confines of her office. He didn't look back to verify, but he could feel her warm presence through his clothes. "But you did," she insisted.

Wilson snapped back, "No. _No_, this wasn't just a mistake. I went _against_ your orders. I _insisted _on continuing the surgery even when you wanted to stop it," he practically yelled, not liking the hysterical sounds coming out of him.

Which was in stark contrast to the way Cuddy replied blithely, "So you made a couple of mistakes…"

Her words gave him pause, gave him _literal_ pause as he stopped in front of the window behind her desk. She sounded so earnest about the entire thing, and he couldn't help but think that that was a little weird. Just minutes ago, she'd been yelling at everyone in the room, and now that they were gone... what – her take on the situation completely changed?

It didn't add up for him, and he had to point it out to her. His hands on his hips, he didn't look at her when he asked, "Why is it that, when everyone else was in the room, this was an act of murder and now it's suddenly a 'mistake'? You yelled at everyone else, and they barely did anything. But I –"

"Wilson," she said in a soft voice as she approached him carefully. One of her hands tentatively pressing against one of his shoulder blades, she explained, "You are, at the moment… the one in charge of that department. It's your _job_ to take risks and do things that most would consider… stupid."

He snorted uncharacteristically at what she was saying but offered nothing in return. Which she must have taken as a sign to continue, because, placing her other hand in the crook of his elbow, she added, "Your fellows' job is to make sure that the risks you're taking are _good_ ones. And they clearly were _not_ doing that."

"They tried," Wilson defended half-heartedly.

This time she was the one to snort. "_Please_. They were all too afraid of getting in trouble with one of us to say anything, and _Cameron_ was too interested in angering me, because she thinks I'm sleeping with _House_."

Cuddy sounded extremely irritated by the idea of having sex with House, which Wilson secretly enjoyed; although he didn't think he wanted Cuddy in that way, he _definitely_ knew that he had no interest in seeing her with _House_.

That would just be too much.

But he didn't have a chance to respond to her, because she added hastily, "Which I'm not doing, by the way."

He didn't mean to say, "Good," but the word escaped him nonetheless.

Cuddy raised an eyebrow, but that was her only reaction to what he'd said. She didn't respond, didn't remind him that he had no right to tell her who she could or couldn't date.

She just changed the subject back to what she'd been talking about as though nothing had happened. "Anyway, my point is that they weren't doing their jobs. You _were_, Wilson."

"And a ten-year-old girl is dead either way," he told her gravely, wondering to himself what it mattered that he'd been doing his job and the rest of the team hadn't. It certainly didn't make him feel any better to know that.

If anything it just made him feel more culpable, because he'd been the one paying attention. He'd been the one fighting for the young girl's life.

He'd been the one make the mistake.

"Hey," Cuddy said warmly, the word pulling him away from the somber thought inside of him. And apparently convinced that that still hadn't gotten him to give her his full attention, she used her hands on him to guide his body to face her. Maneuvering him as gently as possible, she spoke once he was looking at her. "This isn't your fault."

Almost as though somebody else, somebody so much crueler than Wilson himself, had taken over his body, he asked icily, "Is that what you tell House? Is what you told him after he killed Amber?" He pushed her hands off of his body but didn't move away from her. "Or does he just not feel guilty at all?"

There was a brief second of silence where it felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room. The quiet only broken when Cuddy roughly exhaled, for that short period of time, it had felt as though his questions had destroyed their tentative friendship and not a single molecule in their presence could contain that realization.

Eventually though, she did respond, her tongue briefly darting out to lick her lips. "Of course he feels guilty."

"Then I'm sure you tell him not to feel that way," Wilson told her with disdain. "I bet you tell him that none of this was his fault."

In the back of his mind, the image of such a conversation began to play for him. House sitting on the couch with Cuddy standing in front of him, her spoken absolution made him sigh with relief. And it made Wilson feel as though a thousand knives had been stuck into his heart, the organ feeling as though it were bleeding painfully at the sight of the non-existent memory.

She shook her head. "In order for me to say any of those things to him, he would have to tell me that he actually _felt_ guilty."

Wilson parsed through her words quickly. "And he doesn't."

It was a statement – not a question.

"Don't be an idiot," she snapped. "Of course he does. I just _said_ as much. But you know him well enough to know that he would _never_ ask for my sympathy or for _any_ comfort my words might give him."

"Yeah, he's just a martyr, isn't he?"

"Wilson," she said, a hint of warning in her tone. "You want him to feel guilty. He _does_. He doesn't want to talk about it, but I _know_ that's how he feels." Once more she reached out for Wilson, this time taking one of his hands in hers. "Sometimes I'll look at him, and he…"

She paused and swallowed hard. The muscles in her throat moving uneasily, it was obvious that she was trying to find the right words. "He looks like someone who would gladly accept _torture_ if it meant avoiding feeling the way he does."

"You're exaggerating," Wilson replied with a scoff.

"No, I'm not."

"_Yes_, you –"

Cuddy immediately interrupted angrily, "_You_ haven't seen him. _I_ have. You have no idea what he's been like, Wilson. _None_. And if you did, you wouldn't be insisting that he doesn't feel guilty enough."

It was at that moment that Wilson understood rationally that he needed to stop pursuing the matter; he was already unable to tell himself that he was different than House, and pushing Cuddy further on the subject wouldn't change that fact.

But even knowing that, he couldn't help but press her. Almost as though he had no control over the rage within in, he found himself protesting her words nevertheless. "But –"

"Stop," she told him, her quiet voice sounding stern. "I know this is hard for you, but you have to _stop_ this. Hating House isn't going to bring your girlfriend back, anymore than his… wanting to trade places with Amber will make it happen."

Her eyes lit up as though speaking those words had suddenly made her realize the truth contained within them. But Wilson remained more doubtful, scoffing, "He doesn't –"

"Stop," she repeated using the same tone as before. "I'm not lying to you – I have no reason to do that."

"House is your friend," he uttered miserably.

"You're my friend too." Wilson couldn't decide if she sounded more hurt or angry by the accusation inherent in his words, and unfortunately for him, he didn't get a chance to ask, because she continued talking. "And if House were acting anything like you have in mind, I would _never_ forgive him for it."

Wilson let her words wash over him, giving each and every syllable the appropriate amount of consideration. He didn't want to fight her too much; she'd said she was his friend, and if he fought back, wasn't that like saying that they weren't friends at all?

Granted, just earlier today, he'd thought that they weren't friends. But he could see now that that probably hadn't been the reality of the situation; he'd just been so caught up in his anger, trapped by the need to be _right_ that he hadn't seen what Cuddy was trying to do for him.

Hours ago, he'd decided they weren't friends, but that was precisely what she was attempting to be by refusing to let him do the procedure. And given everything that had happened since then, Wilson was worried now that second-guessing her would be the last straw.

But even knowing that, he could feel the urge to challenge her bubbling within him.

Not that he had a chance to act on it; before he had an opportunity to utter a word, Cuddy took a step closer to him and said, "I need you to trust me… I know that you're upset and angry and… all of it. But I need you to believe that I _only_ want what's best for you."

Wilson would have been lying if he said he understood why she sounded so insistent or why she was talking as though him believing in her was important. Honestly, he didn't get it at all. And he was about to ask her why she wanted his confidence so badly when she spoke once more.

"I care about you. And I care about House, and the more you_ punish_ me for being his friend, the less I want to be _yours_."

She wasn't trying to be mean.

He could tell as much, her voice soft if firm. But her intentions didn't really matter as Wilson felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach anyway. Disdain lacing every word, he said, "So now you're threatening me to –"

"Of course not," she interrupted impatiently before sighing in frustration. "I'm just saying that…. I don't know," she said with a shake of the head.

And it was clear to him that she didn't know what she was trying to say; her sudden silence attested to that fact – as did the soft flutter of her eyelashes and the clenching of the muscles in her jaw. So it came as no surprise that her next words were slow to come and regularly halted with pauses.

"I guess… I'm saying that… I know you want me to be your friend – and I _am_ your friend." She was quick to add that last part. "But… you have to accept that House is part of my life. Part of _your_ life."

"He's not my friend," Wilson insisted.

And she didn't fight that point. Instead she conceded by saying, "Maybe not. But… he is a part of your life. You live in the same city; you know a bunch of the same people. You _work_ together," she stressed in a voice that bordered on whiny. "You can't pretend he doesn't exist, and you can't keep punishing me over that fact. I can't make him disappear."

Wilson contemplated telling her that that wasn't exactly true; murder was always a viable option and a way to make House disappear. But Wilson wasn't so far gone as to miss the sheer insanity of such a statement, and he knew that if he made the comment, Cuddy would never let it go. So instead he said, nodding his head, "You're right. I'd almost forgotten how much like genital warts House could be."

Clearly ashamed to see the very appropriate comparison, Cuddy gave him a tense smile. "All I'm saying is I need you to accept that he's going to be… _around_. And even if you find a way to never talk to him again, I need you to forgive me for not being able to do the same."

There was more than a hint of desperation in her voice, the sound of pleading almost enough to make him ignore what it was she was asking for. Almost enough but not precisely enough, because her tone – no matter how much it made him ache – just wasn't enough to do that.

"I can't," he told her mournfully. His eyes flashing sympathetically towards her, he hoped she would understand.

But it was immediately clear that she didn't, because she practically begged, "Please. Don't do this anymore. You're one of my best friends."

Her hands gripped his once more, her cool fingertips lightly running over his knuckles, which were prominent thanks to the heated fists he was making. "He killed my girlfriend, Cuddy."

At that moment, Wilson wondered just how many times he'd said that since Amber's death. How many times had he reminded the woman before him that House had done something incredibly _wrong_?

He wasn't sure he wanted a number, knowing all too well that that would only make him angry – the one emotion he wasn't really feeling right now, oddly enough.

As furious as he could have been that Cuddy was asking him to let this go, to forgive her for protecting House, for _loving_ House, Wilson wasn't. Maybe that was the result of killing a ten-year-old girl today (it was hard to be indignant when you'd committed murder only hours ago). Or maybe he was simply too tired to fight, too desperate for a meaningful friendship to rebuke her.

But whatever the reason, he was only able to remind her of what happened, his voice filled with sadness. And hers laced with understanding, she replied quietly, "I know."

However, it was clear by the searching look in her eyes that that knowledge wasn't enough to get her to back down. And although she didn't say anything else, he understood intuitively that the only way she would drop the matter was if he completely dashed all of her hopes.

Perhaps surprisingly enough, Wilson had no desire to do that; as hurtful as he could see his behavior had been, it wasn't within him to upset her further. Honestly at this point, he wanted – _needed_ – some stability in his life, and given that he seemed incapable of providing it for himself, he recognized that it wasn't a bad idea to find solid ground with Cuddy.

But at the same time, part of him was content with being angry. Even as she seemed willing to forgive him for killing his patient, he didn't know if that was enough to get him to let go of all the fury he'd been aiming in her direction.

He didn't know if it was enough to counteract everything she _hadn't_ done for him in the last several weeks.

Instantaneously, he recognized how childish that thought was.

_God_, it was childish – so much so that Wilson couldn't help but feel as though he were turning into _House_. The differences that had kept them separate in his mind no longer seemed to exist, and seeing the gap between them disappearing at a rapid pace, Wilson scrambled to put some distance between them once more. Because he didn't want to be House or to have Amber's death make himself more and more like her _murderer_.

Fear and shame curdling the afternoon latte in his belly, Wilson looked at Cuddy with wild eyes. Her own gaze was serene if pleading, and she seemed completely unaware of the terror within him, of the need inside of him to prove that he _wasn't_ House. Which Wilson was grateful for, because he wanted her to believe that she'd convinced him when he said in capitulation, "Okay."

Immediately she sighed in relief, and he repeated, liking the way the word felt on his tongue, "Okay."

Cuddy opened her mouth to respond, a small smile appearing on her face. But she didn't get a chance to say anything, because it was at that moment that her assistant opened the door.

"Dr. Cuddy?" The young woman sounded nervous and embarrassed to have interrupted what was clearly a private moment.

And Cuddy was also feeling the latter emotion, because the second her assistant entered the room, Cuddy pulled her hands abruptly from Wilson's. "Do you need something?"

"I'm sorry," the assistant said immediately, her eyes darting back and forth between Wilson and Cuddy. "It's just that there's a guy in the clinic. He's _screaming_ for drugs, and the other patients are upset."

Cuddy wasn't sure what was worse – the fact that her assistant still had yet to learn to _knock_ or that Cuddy's first instinct was to think the screaming man in the clinic was House. But then almost immediately, she understood that, above all else, what was terrible was that they'd all had the same thought; they'd _all_ pictured House when they imagined a crazy junkie.

Or at least that was what Cuddy assumed the dark look on Wilson's face meant. As possible as it might have been for him to be angry over the interruption, she somehow doubted it. And whatever doubts she might have had over her assistant's thought process were completely dashed when the young woman hastily added, "It's not Dr. House. I've never seen this guy before."

"Oh," Cuddy replied, glancing over at Wilson who seemed nothing short of surprised at the news. "Did you call security?"

Her assistant nodded her head slowly. "They're on their way…"

"Which means they'll be here sometime tomorrow morning," Cuddy deduced in an annoyed tone.

Curious Wilson asked, "Why don't you hire a different company?"

Heading towards the door, Cuddy said, "That would be a question better suited for Cameron; the budget committee won't get me the cash I need to hire someone capable of doing their job." Opening her office door, she glanced back at him and added, "You'd think they'd want better security after House was shot, but apparently, they see that as a victimless crime."

Immediately she reconsidered saying that; she was on shaky ground, at best, with Wilson, and mentioning House didn't seem like the smartest thing to do. But the words had come out of her mouth before she'd truly thought about who she was talking to, and now the only thing she could think of was how badly she'd just screwed up.

Her lips parted slightly, she tried to come up with something to say to get focus off of House. But of course, this was going to be one of those times where the need to say something negated her brain's ability to actually think of words that would allow her to segue away from the uncomfortable topic.

Which was why it was lucky that Wilson seemed to let it go, instead choosing to ask her, "Do you need help?"

Her first instinct was to make a joke out of the question; after all, handling crazed drug addicts was nothing new for her. But thankfully she realized before she'd even had a chance to open her mouth that the comment wouldn't do much, if any, good. So she simply gave him a terse "No. I'll be fine; you should go home and relax."

He nodded his head, and she took that as permission to leave. Not that she was really looking forward to dealing with a junkie needing his fix, but at this point, Cuddy was resigned to doing it; clearly her terrible and ineffective security wasn't going to handle it, which only left _her_.

And within seconds of entering the free clinic, she reminded herself to light a fire – a gigantic, smoldering hot fire – under the budget committee's ass the next time she met with them. Because, although they were reluctant to give her the cash for new security, this was all the proof needed for _anyone _to know that they really _did_ need a new company. Talking junkies down from the ledge was decidedly _not_ a job for the Dean of Medicine, and Cuddy clenched her jaw shut with the determination to fix this problem immediately.

But at the moment, a long-term solution to the issue at hand was the last thing on her mind, because right now all she needed was a short-term one. And though she didn't like that it would come in the form of calmly approaching the man shouting in front of the nurses' station, Cuddy resigned herself to doing just that.

Her confident steps belying the reluctance she felt, she easily approached the man in question. A smile plastered on her face, she interrupted his angry tirade, "Excuse me, sir."

The man whipped around to face her. Which she immediately wished he hadn't done, because somehow, now that he was focused on her, she could _smell_ him. The sickly sweet scent of fruit and alcohol, of sweat and cologne hit her senses, and she briefly wished she'd made Wilson handle the man.

And that feeling clearly wasn't going to go away any time soon.

His hollowed-looking, dark eyes met hers, and he screamed, his hands clutching at the pink button-down shirt he was wearing, "I need medicine!"

"I understand that," Cuddy told him in a quiet voice. "But you need to –"

"I need a doctor!"

Gesturing to herself, she said, "_I_ am a doctor. And I'm willing to see you. But you're being disruptive to the staff and other patients, so I need you to calm down a little. Or I'm going to have to call security."

It was a lie, of course; they'd already called security, and his behavior, which was clearly drug seeking, had already all but ensured that the man would be tossed out of the hospital. But Cuddy didn't think he needed to know that at the moment. After all, she could get him to behave more with the lure of drugs than the outright denial of them.

The man proved as much by looking at her carefully. Almost as though he were trying to assess her honesty, he said nothing at first. Instead he swallowed hard. His voice lowered, he eventually asked, "You'll treat me?"

"I'll _examine_ you," Cuddy clarified immediately. "And we'll go from there… all right?" He nodded his head in agreement. "Good. Then why won't we head to exam room one?"

Admittedly this was _not_ hospital protocol, which demanded that doctors turn away drug seekers without question, without _hesitation._ Even more obvious was the fact that taking a potential addict into an exam room alone was probably not the smartest thing to do. But Cuddy was, rightly or wrongly, convinced that she could handle this situation on her own and that, by the time things got out of hand, security would get their lazy asses into the clinic.

Ushering the slightly overweight, middle-aged man into the first exam room, she asked him conversationally, "How long have you been waiting to see someone?"

He scratched absentmindedly at his sweaty forehead. "I don't know."

She nodded her head once as she shut the exam room door behind her. And for a brief moment, she contemplated asking the man what his name was. Then again, Cuddy supposed it was pointless, considering security was going to take him away in minutes. So instead, she asked him, "What can I do for you?"

"Lidocaine," he barked out. "I need lidocaine."

Her gaze narrowed on him. He wasn't pacing, as Wilson had been only moments before. But there was the same sort of nervous energy in the man that made Cuddy uneasy. And despite understanding that there were many reasonable uses for lidocaine, she didn't feel any better knowing that a drug was the first thing out of the man's mouth.

"Well… why don't we start by you telling me your symptoms and then we'll worry about a course of treatment," she suggested congenially.

But her temporary patient didn't take her words as acts of kindness. "I told you what I need," he snarled, stalking towards her quickly. Coming to stand right in front of her, he added, "Give me what I need."

Cuddy blinked numbly. Her body felt as though it had suddenly been doused in cold water, and she fought the urge to shiver as she realized that there was no place for her to go. The man, who wasn't huge but was definitely bigger than _she_ was, was in front of her; her back was practically pressed against the door, but in order to open it, she would have to pull it towards her, which would mean getting closer to the junkie who seemed intent on harming her.

No, there was no place to go.

And if she weren't beginning to feel an inkling of concern for her wellbeing, she would have chastised herself for being so _stupid_ as to put herself into this situation. But as it were, there were more important things to be worried about.

Taking a deep breath, she said calmly, "Sir. Why don't you sit down and let me examine you?"

"_No_." He rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand in agitation. "No," he repeated.

"I can't write you a prescription until I examine –"

His hands were suddenly on her, fingers pressing dangerously into her upper arms. But before she'd even had time to register the contact, he shoved her away violently.

There was no defending herself against the attack. Her heels already gave her a precarious sense of balance; add to that the fact that she was completely unprepared to be pushed, and there was no way to avoid being slammed back into the door behind her.

The back of her head connected harshly with the door. A loud thump filled the air, the noise a stark contrast to the rather hushed sounds of their adrenaline-caused loud breathing. And though he looked at her as though he was willing to kill her for the drugs, Cuddy was more annoyed by the act than anything else.

As understandable as it was to be afraid in this sort of situation, she refused to allow herself to feel the emotion. Just as she would refuse to give the man what he wanted. "I understand what you want," she told him tersely, trying to keep control of the situation. "But you have to let me examine you first."

She wasn't even sure he would calm down long enough for that to happen, but she hoped that he would – if only because it would allow her to stall until security got there.

He obviously didn't agree with the suggestion of an examination.

Although he didn't say no, within seconds, she understood that that would have been just a formality. Because the instant he stepped into her personal space once more, she realized that…

She _wasn't_ going to be examining him.

She _wasn't_ in control of this.

She _wouldn't_ be in control of this.

Fear wrenched at her harshly, adrenaline surging through her body and forcing her to react. But it was a split second too late that Cuddy tried to duck out of the way, tried to avoid the outstretched hands reaching for her throat. Her reaction too delayed, there was no escaping the vice suddenly clenched around her neck.

The warm palms of his hands closed tightly around her neck. His fingertips digging into her flesh, his thumbs pressed as hard as they could against her windpipe.

She gasped for breath, for the ability to say something that would make him let go. But opening her mouth, the muscles in neck struggling to move, she couldn't breathe much less say anything.

Her eyes watered.

Her lungs burned.

Her cheeks felt warm as she strained underneath his grip.

And each time she tried to move her head out of the way, each time she attempted to free herself, the more likely she thought she wouldn't.

The more likely it would be that…

She would die.

She _could_ die.

That thought running through her head, she understood that she needed to escape.

_Now_.

Doing the first thing that came to mind, Cuddy dug her fingernails into the back of his hands, clawing at his skin. Blood trickled down the back of her hand, rivulets lazily following the contours of her knuckles.

But it wasn't enough to make him stop.

It just made him angry, made him snarl, "Write me a prescription or you're gonna die." His breath hot on her cheek, he said, "Give me the lidocaine. Give me the drug."

Instead Cuddy gave him a knee in the testicles.

Was it a clichéd move almost _always_ used by women in television and movies to escape would-be attackers? Sure. But was it also an effective way of getting this stranger off of her? _Yes_, and that was all that mattered to her at the moment.

The second her knee connected with him, he howled in pain. And although he didn't let go of her throat, his grip loosened enough for Cuddy to shove him off of her. The motion was one he clearly wasn't expecting, and he tripped on his shoelaces as she scrambled to maintain his balance.

The stranger stumbled backwards. His sneakers squeaked on the floor, and the lack of friction made him go hurling into a triage cart by the sink. The loud sound of metal clanging onto the floor filling the room, it was proof enough that her _patient_ was incapacitated. And it was all the opportunity she needed to get the hell out of the room.

Not even giving herself enough a chance to catch her breath, Cuddy spun around to face the door. She was panting, reaching for the doorknob even as her throat rasped with the need for oxygen. Hurriedly her fingers clasped around the brass knob.

But she didn't get a chance to open it.

Because the second she started to turn the handle, he grabbed her. His hand on her ankle, he yanked on her hard.

She fell to the ground, her chin colliding with her chest as she hit the floor. The sheer force with which he'd pulled on her had been more than enough to get her grip to slip on the door handle. And though she managed to put her hands out in front of her in time to catch her fall, Cuddy, caught by surprise, was unable to stop the violent meeting of her teeth and lower lip.

Accidentally she bit through the soft flesh of her lip. The metallic taste of blood coated her tongue, making her want to vomit. But only momentarily, because the sickening fluid in her mouth couldn't compare to the horror rampaging through her as the hands on her ankles pulled her away from the door.

Her fingers tried to dig into the floor to stop herself from moving. Her nails scratched at the grout in the tile, but it was to no avail. The linoleum offered her no friction, and there was nothing for her to grab onto.

There was nothing to stop him from pulling her back from the door, from freedom.

She kicked him as hard as she could. And she was renewed with hope when she felt her foot connect with something solid. Although she couldn't be sure what she'd hit, Cuddy could only believe that she'd hit something important. Or something that hurt already, because the second she touched him, he let go of her.

And she didn't have to do any more than that.

Thankfully at that moment, the door to the exam room opened.

Still on the floor, Cuddy first noticed the shoes, noticed the nicely cleaned and polished leather, and knew that the person could only be Wilson. Which, truth be told, didn't make her feel relieved in the least; as much as she cared about Wilson, as much as she _loved_ him, there was no mistaking him for the fierce protector type.

Or so she thought.

The asshole who'd attacked her didn't seem to agree, because the second he saw Wilson, the stranger scrambled to get out of the room. He struggled to get to his feet, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor. And then he ran out of the room as quickly as was humanly possible.

Wilson, of course, had the power to stop him, could have easily nabbed the man as he tried to escape. But Wilson was too frozen, apparently, by the sight of Cuddy on the floor, bloody and breathing heavily, to pay much attention to anything else.

His voice shaking a little, he asked in fear and surprise, "Cuddy?"

"I'm fine," she choked out quickly. "Stop him."

However, it seemed that Wilson was far too concerned with her to care about doing that. Because instead of chasing after the man running out of the door, Wilson simply stepped inside and knelt beside her. One of his hands on her shoulders, he asked, "What happened?"

"The idiot attacked me," she said, her voice hoarse and throat scratchy. "Don't let him leave the hospital." Blood was trickling down her chin; she couldn't see it, but she could feel the warm fluid slowly driveling along the contours of her face.

And that made her panic a little inside.

There was _blood_ involved, she told herself.

_Her_ blood.

Which suddenly made everything that had just happened seem so much worse in her own mind. And so much _scarier_ too, because now she could see just how easily it would have been for something even more awful than a bloody lip to happen.

At that moment, Wilson must have sensed her concern, because he told her, shaking his head, "Security's got him; they were right outside the door."

Cuddy wasn't sure whether or not she should believe him. Part of her felt that it was a mathematical unlikelihood (if not an outright impossibility) for her security team to be doing its job. And there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that Wilson would lie to her, would tell her that the person who'd attacked her had been caught if only to make her feel better.

The warm hand rubbing circles into her lower back only seemed to confirm that he was lying. One of his hands gently wrapping around her wrist, he helped her stand up carefully. And looking at him, she could tell that he was lying; she could tell that there was no security outside, no one to magically stop her attacker.

"You're lying," she said, wincing as each word exacerbated the injury to her lip.

His gaze traveling the length of her, Wilson ignored the accusation. And instead, he changed the subject. "You're going to need someone to examine you. That lip looks like it could use a few stitches."

"Fine," she replied hastily. "Do it."

"Right now?"

Cuddy pulled away from him and moved towards the exam table. As she clumsily hoisted herself up, she said, "Unless you have something better to do."

Confusion lacing every tone, he asked, "You don't want to go somewhere else?"

She rolled her eyes. "Last I checked this was still an exam room." He nodded his head in understanding but didn't say anything; it was clear that he was put off by her current behavior, but he wasn't willing to push it, which she was grateful for.

Unfortunately for him she wasn't quite as willing to accept the status quo. As he turned to close the exam door, she accused him once more of lying. "Security wasn't out there. Admit it."

Moving towards her once more, Wilson asked, "Why do you want me to say that that guy is running around loose?"

"Wilson, I've just been attacked for… really no explicable reason. My lip is bleeding. My heat hurts, and my throat's going to be sore for the next few days."

Listing everything that was wrong suddenly made things seem more terrible than they really were, and she swallowed hard to fight back the emotion – whatever emotion it was – desperate to escape her.

"My clothes are ruined," she added with a sigh.

"Your knee's bleeding too," Wilson pointed out.

Instantly, Cuddy looked down and saw that he was right. Both of her knees looked as though they'd been rubbed raw from her attempts to crawl away from the idiot who'd attacked her. But only the left one was bleeding. Pouting she added, "And my knee's bleeding. So I would _really_ like the sadistic pleasure of firing a useless security team. But if they did their job today – for the first time _ever_, by the way – I can't do that."

Wilson cocked his head to side in curiosity. "So… what you're saying is you'd rather have the pleasure of firing a bunch of people than the peace of mind from knowing that the person who did this to you can't do it again."

"I just want you to tell me the truth," she said honestly. Forcing herself to smile a little, Cuddy added, "So that I can appropriate my anger in –"

"Security wasn't around," Wilson confessed. "I called them right after you came in here. They said they were on their way, but… a couple minutes passed, and they hadn't arrived, and you hadn't left the exam room, so I decided to check on you."

Nodding her head in understanding, she told him, "Thank you."

They fell into silence as Wilson fished for some gauze in a drawer. At the moment, she didn't trust herself to speak, lest she say more than was absolutely necessary. The potential for messy emotions to spill over with a single utterance was greater than she would have wanted. And though she refused to let herself feel _afraid_ (the word sounded particularly disdainful in her thoughts), Cuddy wasn't sure sheer force of will was enough in this instance.

Resolved to not say a single word, she remained quiet until Wilson started examining her lip. "It's a little deep," he explained, pulling his latex gloves off. "It could use a few stitches – unless you don't care about the possibility of a scar."

In truth Cuddy wasn't particularly concerned about that; she was too drained from fighting to worry all that much about _anything_. But nevertheless she nodded her head in consent to the procedure. "Just do it. Sutures are preferable to bleeding all over everything," she told him dryly.

"I can call Reeds in plastic –"

"No. I don't care about that."

He nodded his head once. "Okay. Then I'll sew you up." When she didn't say anything, Wilson added, "I just need to get some lidocaine."

Although he didn't mean to prompt her, mentioning the lidocaine reminded her of what had started this whole ordeal. And she had to ask him right then and there, "Have you ever known someone to be addicted to it?"

His eyebrows raised in confusion, he asked, "To lidocaine?"

"Yes."

"No," he answered immediately. "Why?"

Her gaze was focused on her fingernails – or rather, on the blood trapped underneath them when she explained in controlled tones, "That's what he wanted. Lidocaine. And I don't understand why…"

She didn't trust herself to finish the thought.

But thankfully for her, Wilson didn't press her on the matter and instead did the kind thing by trying to make a joke out of it. "Maybe he was planning on a little home dentistry."

She smiled but didn't say anything, and they fell into silence once more. Only when he was suturing her up did he make another suggestion. "Maybe he was so high he didn't know what it was he asking for."

Yet that sounded even less likely than the idea of a homemade root canal. And she decided to tell him so. Forcing him to pause as he stitched her up, she asked doubtfully, "A drug addict who doesn't know what he's addicted to?"

Wilson shrugged. "It's possible… unless we're completely wrong about the addiction and he had a medical reason for wanting the lidocaine that badly."

She winced as he finished the last stitch. "Like?"

"Like…" His voice trailed off as he tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for what had happened. Frankly, Cuddy didn't think he would find one. Nothing about this day made particular sense, so really, it would just be more of the same for there to be no reason behind the man's actions.

But surprisingly enough, as he dabbed her knees with antiseptic, Wilson did give her a possibility. "You know, I have heard that lidocaine's been used to treat tinnitus." He paused for a second to throw away the cotton swab before adding, "And Meniere's, so maybe he –"

"Thought strangling his doctor was a good idea?"

There was more than a hint of disbelief in the question, but thinking about it for more than a second, Cuddy realized that it wasn't completely ridiculous. For the last several weeks, she'd seen how House's tinnitus had affected him. It had made him irritable (well, more so than usual) and distracted to the point that sometimes she couldn't completely follow his logic. And asking herself whether or not he would have hurt someone to make the ringing in his ears stop, she knew what the answer to that question was.

Honestly, Cuddy didn't want to say yes; she didn't _want_ to believe that he was capable of hurting someone. But she knew that, in his current state, he might. Certainly if the person trying to give him the drugs was someone he didn't know, it was possible.

Interrupting her thoughts, Wilson echoed the sentiment. "Of course it's not a _good_ idea. But if the lidocaine is the one thing that relieved his condition…"

Wilson kept talking, but she'd stopped listening by that point; she'd thought of House, and now that she had, she couldn't easily push him out of her mind. In her defense, Wilson had mentioned a treatment for tinnitus, a condition that House had and a condition that _she_ had spent the last month – almost _two_ months – dealing with. And frankly she was more interested in knowing if lidocaine was the miracle cure for the irritating problem in House's life (and therefore _her_s as well) than anything else.

It was perfectly reasonable to be considering that and _not_ her attack, she told herself.

But she knew better than to share any of that with Wilson; they might have been on better terms, but it was too soon to talk about House with him.

So she decided to approach the subject in the vaguest of ways. Suddenly, she asked, "You think it's possible – the lidocaine being a treatment that he needed?"

"Sure," he said immediately. And then he looked as though he were rethinking his response, because he was quick to add, "But there's nothing for you to feel guilty about. From what I've read, all of the studies conducted showed that lidocaine as a treatment isn't very effective. Even if you'd prescribed it for him, he'd probably suffer from –"

"But his tinnitus would be gone," she interrupted, her eyes narrowed on him.

"For twenty minutes maybe." Moving towards her, Wilson once more placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "He attacked you. You don't need to feel guilty."

Of course, by that point, she _did_ feel guilty – not for being unable to treat her attacker but for being such a _liar_.

Here Wilson was trying to console her, and _she_ was _manipulating_ him. Without any compunction or second thought, she'd decided to _use_ him in order to help someone he _hated_, and her complete _lack_ of guilt made her, oddly enough, feel guilty.

But obviously she couldn't tell Wilson _that_. So she just nodded her head and said quietly, "You're right."

As he helped her off of the exam table, he suggested to her, "Maybe you should take the advice you gave me earlier: go home; relax a little."

There was no denying that that sounded nice. Even though she was sure to come home to an angry House and a dead hospice worker, being there still sounded preferable to being stuck here in bloody clothes.

"Okay," she said in agreement. "I suppose I could wait until tomorrow to fire security."

Wilson smiled before offering, "I'll walk you out."

And although it was a kind gesture – one she clearly _hadn't_ earned – Cuddy knew she had to refuse it. As ineffective as Wilson had made the lidocaine sound, it was still a viable treatment for House.

But in order to get the drugs for him, she understood she wouldn't be able to have Wilson peering over her shoulder; getting the lidocaine in front of him would just make him suspicious… and eventually angry if he discovered what was going on.

Shaking her head, she told him, "No, that's okay. I'm fine." The words came out too rushed to sound believable, so she immediately added, "Really, you don't have to do that."

"I don't mind."

"You're sweet," Cuddy said quietly as he held the exam room door open for her. "But if I accept any more of your help… if I have to think about why I am getting your help…" She swallowed hard and forced herself not to think about today's events. "I will _lose_ it," she finished forcefully.

And although that wasn't the main reason she was telling him no, Cuddy suspected that that was part of it. Being treated differently would absolutely make what had happened all the more real, and she wasn't sure that she could handle that for the time being; Amber's death, Wilson's sadness and resentment, House's physical and mental state at the moment – it was all more than Cuddy knew what to do with.

She couldn't deal with this on top of all of _that_.

So she was happy when Wilson gave her a sympathetic look. "Okay. Walk _yourself_ to your car," he said with a smirk on his face and a playfulness in his voice that she hadn't heard in a very long time.

Granted, joking with her had never been a common occurrence; they might have been friends, but they weren't ever really at ease with one another. Not even that bondage exhibit he'd accidentally taken her to had loosened the cummerbund around their relationship, and since then, she'd accepted that that was the way things were.

That was the way _they_ were together.

At some point she was still his boss or a girl – or _something_ that made it impossible for him to be able to relax with her.

Which was why it was so exceptional that he was calm and, quite frankly, _jovial_ with her now. He'd never been like this before, and given how angry he'd been with her the last several weeks, he shouldn't have been that way with her now.

Rationally she understood that the chances were he was just being kind because of what had happened. And though she didn't want to believe it, she knew that equally likely was the fact that things would revert back to the way they had been once he felt she was okay.

It was a truth she wished to ignore, one she wished she could pretend was avoidable. But in her heart, she knew that it wasn't, that it _couldn't_ be avoidable. Wilson's pain, the things he was angry at her for doing – all of it couldn't be erased by one incident. Not even if she'd died today would he have forgiven her for all of her sins, Cuddy recognized regretfully.

Oddly enough though, knowing that made it almost easy to accept his momentary humor for what it was. They clearly weren't going to magically be best friends; they weren't going to move past what had happened with grace and ease and expediency. They _were_ going to be awkward with one another at some point. There was no doubt in her mind that she would be grappling for some solid ground with him, for some commonality that would let them get past Amber and House. So she, understanding what lie ahead, supposed that there was no point in over thinking the joke; she should just accept Wilson's kindness while she had it.

Smiling at him, she said, "Thank you."

One of his hands lightly touching her wrist, he asked, "I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nodded her head, and they ended the conversation at that, giving her plenty of time to visit the pharmacy and grab her things before the morning-to-evening-shift changes.

But by the time she'd returned to House's apartment, she realized that she'd left _way_ too late. At least, she'd left too late to stop whatever fight had _clearly_ occurred between House and his nurse while Cuddy was gone. That much was completely obvious, as the young woman standing in the hallway proved as much.

Keys in hand, Cuddy asked, approaching the woman slowly, "Cassandra? What are you doing out here?"

The young woman turned angrily to face Cuddy. "He _threw_ me out. He…" Her fingers shook as she pointed furiously at Cuddy. "He stole my phone and threw it out in the hallway and then he _locked_ me out!"

Cuddy thought the nurse looked as though she were about to cry – not an uncommon occurrence among those who had just met House.

"I apologize for that," Cuddy said calmly. "But –"

"He broke my phone," Cassandra snapped back.

"I'll replace it. Lets just get inside, and I can write you a check."

But that was easier said than done.

Although Cuddy had keys and could unlock the door, House had used the chain lock. Which meant that she could open the door maybe four or five inches but couldn't actually get inside.

Frustrated and angry, Cuddy slammed her palm loudly on the slightly ajar door. "House!"

He didn't immediately come, which was irritating as hell, and peeking inside, Cuddy couldn't see him at all (which was even worse as it was harder for him to ignore her when she was right in front of him).

"He's not going to let you in," Cassandra spoke up. "I've been trying to get in there for two hours, and he didn't come to the door once."

Cuddy turned to look at her. "He's been alone in the apartment for two hours and you didn't call me?"

"I _tried_," the other woman urged. "But nobody ever picked up your office phone."

There was no doubt in Cuddy's mind that what she was saying was true. After all, thanks to House, Cuddy had told her assistant to ignore the number.

And maybe, Cuddy suddenly considered, that had been his plan all along. Perhaps he'd called her, _harassed _her with the _intention_ of angering her to the point of ignoring all calls that came her way. Because then, once she was refusing to answer the phone, he could torment his nurse until she left, effectively leaving him in the apartment by himself.

Realizing that, Cuddy instantly understood what kind of situation they were in. Licking her lips, she hurriedly asked, "Has he been alone all of this time with his medication?"

"Well, I didn't exactly plan on being _thrown out_ over a _sandwich_. Which, by the way, I did _not_ put pickles in, because in case you didn't realize, there aren't any pickles in the house. So no. I didn't have time to grab all of his meds," Cassandra replied irritably.

It was the answer Cuddy had hoped not to hear.

It was the _one_ thing the other woman could say that would make Cuddy more concerned than she thought possible.

It was the response that meant that House had been alone in an apartment filled with _drugs_.

Fear flowing through her in organ-battering waves, Cuddy turned her attention back to the door. Using the palm of her hand to pound against the slab of wood, she called out to him a few more times.

But he still didn't come.

In fact, there wasn't even a sign that he was still present (or conscious) in the apartment; there were no footsteps, no sounds of whining (which he surely would have done if he'd heard her make this much noise). And that sent terror through her veins, the idea that something was terribly wrong binding with her blood cells as though fear were oxygen and the need to breathe simply a way to feel.

Her fingers shaking as she pounded them against the door, she glared back at the hospice worker. "Did he leave the apartment?"

"No. Of course not," the other woman said, almost affronted by the idea. "Do you think that if he'd opened the door to get out, I would have just stayed standing here?"

Cuddy's eyes narrowed on her. "Did you see him take anything?"

The young woman's response was an irritatingly stupid question. "You mean, like, drugs?" Cuddy's anger must have been easy to read off her face, because Cassandra was hasty to add, "No, I didn't see him take anything."

But that hardly made Cuddy feel any better.

House was nothing if not a fantastic deceiver. He had an uncanny ability to sneak, to manipulate, to flat out _lie_ as though he were speaking the truth, and though Cuddy herself had aimed to uncover his machinations, day in and day out, he beat her. So it really wasn't that much of a stretch to think that House had managed to best Cassandra. Realistically speaking, it was probably safe to say that he could have done any number of things without her noticing.

And each and every one of those things was running through Cuddy's mind at that moment.

What if he'd taken too many Vicodin?

What if he'd forgotten to take the Vicodin and was writhing in the apartment right now, too lost in his pain to get up?

What if he'd decided to take a bath and hit his already fragile head on the tub?

What if he was just sitting in the bedroom, hands folded behind his head, listening to her pound on the door?

Nearly everything was a possibility, was something she couldn't blatantly ignore, thanks to the person she was dealing with.

And that made the urge to panic seem all the more reasonable. Because she didn't know if he was okay or if something horrible had happened to him, if he was just being a dick or if something had happened to him. She didn't know what to expect when she did find him (she refused to let herself think that she might not find him).

Really, she _didn't know_ anything.

And as someone who prided herself on being intelligent, on being able to predict and anticipate and ultimately _solve _problems, it angered her to know that she was in the dark on this; it pissed her off to be completely helpless and to have absolutely _no_ idea what to do to fix the situation.

Frustration, fear, and fury mixing together inside of her, there was only one thing to do, only one way to stop it from totally taking control of her: place all of the blame on the one person she'd hired to prevent this from happening.

Her voice was cold and accusatory when she asked, "How could you let this happen?"

"Dr. Cuddy… I –"

"I _warned_ you that something like this would probably happen." It had been one of the few things she _had_ seriously discussed with all of the hospice candidates, Cuddy knew. Given that there'd been such short notice, she'd had to be more lenient in the worker she hired, and she'd known that at the time. But one thing she hadn't been willing to compromise on was the nurse's ability to deal with these kinds of situations.

And this idiot had sat across from her with a smile on her face and said that she'd be able to handle anything thrown her way.

Recalling the lie, Cuddy viciously snapped, "I _told_ you that House would more than likely try something like this."

The young woman looked as though she were about to cry. "Yes, but –"

"I don't need an excuse," Cuddy cut across quickly.

"And I guess _you_ don't need me to say that I won't be coming back after today," Cassandra replied snottily, which made Cuddy want to kill her.

Truly, it was bad enough that House _and_ Wilson hadn't been talking to her this morning. It was bad_ enough_ that she'd been undermined at work and then attacked. It was _absolutely_ bad enough for her to come home to House missing.

But to have, on top of all of that, the person responsible for House missing _quit_?

There was an irony in the whole situation that Cuddy couldn't appreciate.

And though there was a cruel urge inside of her to laugh at the stupid girl for even thinking that she still had a job, Cuddy didn't. She had enough restraint to stop herself from doing that, knowing full well that it would make her look insane if she were to start laughing.

That didn't mean, however, that she had the ability to stop herself from shouting.

"Believe me, if something has happened to him, you won't need to worry about coming back tomorrow," she snarled. "I'll have your credentials so fast you won't be able to get a job anywhere on the east coast."

Cassandra opened her mouth to say something in response, but the voice that was heard was decidedly not hers. Nor was it one that Cuddy was expecting (though she secretly thought she should have known this would happen).

"Huh. That worked _perfectly_." Both women spun around to see House, his eyes wide with delight, standing in front of the slightly ajar door. "I mean, I _figured_ your head would explode over this, Cuddy, but…" He pointed at Cassandra and with a smirk said, "I had no idea you'd be such a willing lamb being led to slaughter."

Cuddy scowled at him, bitterly understanding that he'd set up this entire situation. Her gaze quickly flitting to Cassandra, it was easy to see that the young woman was still trying to work out what had happened. Which wasn't all that surprising, to be honest, because it wasn't like she'd dealt with House long enough to know when he'd set certain events in motion.

Cuddy_ did_, of course, and in a way, she thought that that should have made her less prone to getting caught in his traps.

But it hadn't.

And that _infuriated_ her.

Her gaze snapping back to House, she snarled, "You stupid bastard." His smirk turned into a wide grin. "Let me in. _Now_."

House pretended to contemplate the request for a moment. "Calling me names… that's not very nice. Doesn't make you sound like you really want to come in –"

"House," she said in a falsely sweet tone. "I have had one of the… _worst_ days I've had in a while. And though you're not _completely_ responsible, I have _no_ qualms about taking all of my frustration out on you." She threw a smirk back at him. "So. Unless you want my shoe rammed up your rectum, let me in."

Anyone else would have blanched at the threat. The way she'd spoken, the darkness and anger bleeding through her otherwise calm tones – it would have been enough for anyone else to know that they needed to back off.

But House wasn't just anyone.

He rarely flinched at her threats and almost always looked for ways to appease her without actually giving her what she wanted. So it came as no surprise that this was no exception. "You look like you've been fighting with a rabid dog," he said with a sneer. "As impressive as your threat is, I wouldn't want to catch anything."

For a brief second, Cuddy considered responding to his very obvious needling of her. But it was only for a moment or two before she realized that they could go back and forth for… _hours_ if he wanted to. And frankly, she didn't have the patience for that.

At the moment, all she wanted to do was get inside so she could take a shower and soak the aching muscles in her neck. Changing her clothes, which were stained with blood, would have been nice too, but it really was the subtle reminder of being choked that she wished to ease if not completely erase.

In any case, regardless of what she wanted to do first, it all added up to one unmistakable truth for her: she had _no_ desire to play House's games. Not even for a second, so she decided to end his fun right now.

It was easy to do, really. Thanks to House's weakened state, she knew it wouldn't take long to wear him down. And though it took her a few seconds to remember that there was a doorbell only a couple of inches from her hand, as soon as she did, Cuddy knew she had House beat.

A smile on her face, she reached for the doorbell. As her fingers hovered over the lightly glowing button covered in rubber, a voice inside of her argued that this was wrong; _hurting_ him was wrong on so many levels, and she should stop herself from _intentionally _causing him any harm.

She knew that was what she _should_ do.

But that wasn't what she did.

Instead, she didn't say anything, didn't give him a warning of what would happen if he didn't let her in immediately. Although a warning would absolutely work, she was beyond willing to give him one. And maybe it was cruel to just ring the doorbell without giving him an option, but honestly, Cuddy was beyond caring. As wrong as it might have been, she felt as though he'd earned all of it.

Repeating the action over and over, she pressed the doorbell. The tinny, shrill noise ringing in short, loud bursts, it was an attack House couldn't withstand. He hissed loudly, wincing as the tinnitus clearly ratcheted itself up another notch.

Whining he said, "What the hell!"

"Let me in," she ordered, pressing the doorbell to punctuate each and every word.

House reacted hastily, shutting the door as quickly as possible without slamming it. His fingers must have fumbled to unlock the chain, as Cuddy could hear the metal links scraping against their wooden frame. But even then, he was obeying her orders with a speed she didn't know existed. And because of that, she felt nothing but relish at her own behavior; not even the disgusted look Cassandra was giving her made her feel bad, and Cuddy decided to tell the other woman that.

"If that look on your face is supposed to make me feel guilty, it doesn't."

The young woman shook her head in sadness. "You're being abusive to him. You shouldn't –"

But she didn't finish the thought as the door swung open once more. Cuddy wasn't really sure why that was; if Cassandra were afraid of talking about House in front of him like this, it probably hadn't been the smartest thing in the world to talk about him when there was only a thin door protecting her privacy.

Then again, this girl was pretty stupid in Cuddy's opinion, so it really shouldn't have been a surprise that discretion was not one of Cassandra's strong points. She was an idiot, and idiots tended to do moronic things; it was in her nature.

Just as it was in House's nature to know and to use to his advantage _exactly_ what was being said about him. So it didn't even make Cuddy flinch when, as the two women crossed the threshold, House told Cassandra, "You should see what she did when she discovered I use wire coat hangers."

The hospice worker clearly didn't get the joke, the lines of her face remaining impassive and unimpressed. But Cuddy didn't particularly care about that fact; frankly, the fewer jokes about abuse Cassandra got, the better it was for them all.

House, however, was obviously unsatisfied by the lack of response. As much as Cuddy had tried to ignore it, the fact was he needed – _desperately_ needed – attention in order to be even remotely satisfied with himself. Which meant that denying him the reaction he so craved only made him worse, made him more of an asshole.

So really, it came as no surprise that as she went to close the door behind her, House said, "You look like _crap_."

A feeble attempt at an insult, to be sure, but it still annoyed Cuddy nonetheless. As true as his assessment of her might have been, it definitely wasn't something she wanted to hear. And if she returned the favor by slamming the door loudly, making him hiss in pain, she didn't feel guilty about it at all.

But if she'd thought that aggravating his tinnitus would get him to back off, she realized quickly that she'd been wrong.

Well, _of course_, she was wrong; retaliation always amounted to escalation when the opponent was House, and it had been shortsighted to think otherwise. And as if to prove that point in the most painful way possible, House stepped into her personal space.

The act echoing one she'd already experienced today, it was unnerving to her. Although she didn't believe House would _hurt_ her, there was no denying it was creepy.

Especially when he started to _sniff_ her.

"What are you doing?" She tried to sound more exasperated than bothered, but she wasn't sure if she succeeded in doing that. Certainly her words had failed to give House pause, the tip of his nose skimming along the landscape of her shoulder.

"You smell," he replied.

Her cheeks blushed with embarrassment, and realizing that this day just kept getting worse and worse, she had half a mind to bang her head against the door until she lost consciousness.

"Of course, I do," she snapped back, completely fed up with every aspect of her life at the moment. "I've been in a hospital all day, and –"

"You don't smell like the hospital," he interrupted. His voice was distant, affected by a drawl he only got when he was contemplating something seriously. "You smell… fruity."

Cuddy scoffed and pushed him away. "I know your understanding of hygiene is incredibly lax, but some of us _like_ to shower and smell nice."

"I didn't say you smelled _good_," he replied hastily, almost as though he were affronted by the idea of his words being a compliment to her. Actually, thinking about it for a few seconds, Cuddy realized he probably _was_ upset about being unintentionally kind. And maybe it was because of that fact that he added immediately, "And your point doesn't make sense. You can't say you smell bad because of the hospital and then thirty seconds later defend your _stench_ with claims of hygiene."

He moved in to sniff her once more, but Cuddy held him _literally_ at arm's length with a hand pressed firmly into his chest. Her fingertips digging into the softly fuzzing material of his shirt, she said, "I'm not a life-size scratch-and-sniff." Still he persisted by trying to step forward, and that only elicited an angry response. "I don't know what it is exactly that your paranoid, _bored_ mind has cooked up, but _stop it_."

Of course, it went without saying that the chances of him actually obeying her were slim to none. And he looked as though he were about to say something in response when, thankfully, Cassandra made her presence known once more. "Dr. Cuddy?"

Both House and Cuddy turned to look at the young woman, who seemed more embarrassed to interrupt them than anything else. "I need to leave now," she explained slowly. "So if you could pay me…"

"Of course," Cuddy responded happily. Although she wasn't exactly a fan of the girl, dealing with her was certainly better than Cuddy having to deal with House sniffing her with the same voracity a dog would smell a fire hydrant.

Knowing that she quickly extracted herself from the situation with House. And moving into the kitchen with Cassandra, Cuddy noted the controversial sandwich sitting pathetically on the island. There was only a single bite missing, a pristine set of teeth marks in one triangle of the Reuben. As she placed her briefcase on the kitchen counter, Cuddy lazily wondered if Cassandra had been telling the truth about the sandwich.

Really it made no sense for her to lie. She'd already made it clear that she had no interest in keeping this job, and it wasn't exactly like putting pickles on a Reuben was a crime.

But then why would _House_ lie?

As Cuddy pulled out her checkbook, answers immediately popped into her head. He would lie, because he was angry with her over leaving. He would lie to hurt her, to distract her from her job. He would lie, because…

He was House.

Sighing Cuddy pushed that thought into the back of her mind. She'd deal with him in a moment; first though, she needed to get rid of the young woman who was looking at her with expectant eyes. "I'm adding some money in case you need your phone replaced," Cuddy told her quietly.

"Thank you." Cassandra looked around as though she were afraid House was going to jump out and interrupt their conversation.

… Which wasn't exactly an impossibility. The jumping part might have been but certainly not the interrupting part. Cuddy knew that much.

Cassandra, however, hadn't picked up on that fact, it would seem, because after a second, she spoke up. "You know… I don't quite know how to say this," she told Cuddy in something just above a conspiratorial whisper. "But I'm not sure Greg is ready for hospice care. I mean, I've seen a _lot_ of patients with T.B.I., but if I've seen someone _more_ argumentative and agitated, they've been in a –"

"Here," Cuddy said coldly, ripping out the check and handing it to the other woman.

Cassandra took the proffered item and immediately began to apologize, rightly sensing that Cuddy wasn't pleased. "I'm sorry. I just –"

"The way House behaved today for you isn't an indication of the severity of his condition," Cuddy muttered quickly. "It must be hard for you to imagine someone being that big a _jackass_ by choice, but… he is." Brushing back a messy curl, she added in a stern voice, "Now I think you can see yourself out."

It was an effective way to end the conversation… with Cassandra at least. House, who had clearly heard what both women had said, was going to be a lot harder to appease. Entering the kitchen seconds after Cassandra left, he asked, "You really think all of this is as natural as your breasts?"

With a smirk on his face, he gestured to himself by running a hand lightly down his rumpled t-shirt.

"Believe me. I wish it wasn't," she said darkly, turning away from him to examine the long forgotten sandwich.

She tried to remember how old it was but couldn't. She'd received so many phone calls from House today that it was impossible to recollect the exact time he'd complained about pickles. And even though she knew that he'd harassed her around the same time as her donors, it was hard to say when he'd actually gotten the sandwich.

Picking up a half, she could feel that the bread had begun to harden from being in contact with the air for so long. Even more disgusting was the meat. Not that she was particularly prone to thinking corned beef _ever_ looked good, but this was worse than normal. The red meat had a thin layer of condensation on it, as deli meats sometimes did when they too had been sitting out for a long period of time.

Admittedly common sense dictated that she dump the sandwich down the garbage disposal. But Cuddy knew that if she did that, she wouldn't have any conclusive proof that House had been lying to her; at best, she would just suspect that he had.

Suspicion, of course, was usually good enough for her. There were plenty of times when she'd crucified him, blamed him for things at the hospital that she couldn't prove. Generally speaking, when it came to mayhem at work, he was behind it in some way. And even if on the off chance he _wasn't_ responsible for the event she was blaming him for, _guaranteed_, he was up to something else. So why _not_ yell at him?

Under these circumstances, though, yelling first and figuring out what he did later didn't seem like the right course of action. Because if the issue was lying about the sandwich, then she needed proof of that; she needed to know that there weren't any pickles hiding between the layers of corned beef. Or if there was the offending food in the sandwich, then she needed to know that much as well, so that she could simply yell at House for not understanding what kinds of situations were worth calling her over.

Obviously, chances were she was going to be shouting about that anyway. Pickles or no, this whole entire day had been filled with bizarre, stupid, and _completely_ unnecessary drama. Some of that, of course, wasn't House's fault, but Cuddy was going to make damn well sure he was held accountable for the parts he _had_ had a hand in.

Anger overwhelming her, she turned to glare at House who was watching her with intent interest. He was studying her as though she was one of his puzzles, and it unnerved her a little. But she'd barely had time to look in his direction before he asked, "You drink today?"

Her eyes widened in shock and confusion at the question. Of all the things he could have said, she wasn't expecting _that_. Her eyebrows knitting together, she answered belatedly, "Of course not. Why –"

"Alcohol would explain the smell," he replied, taking steps closer to her.

It was painfully obvious by now that he had no intention of dropping the matter, and it frankly made Cuddy infuriated. She angrily slapped her hand against the kitchen island. "Oh, _enough_ with the smell already. I know you like to watch Scooby Doo, but you're not a bloodhound sniffing out little Timmy in the well."

House sighed dramatically. "Okay, well, first of all, Scooby Doo is a Great Dane – not a bloodhound. And he doesn't rescue Timmy or anyone else from wells; he solves mysteries, is afraid of his own shadow, and eats food like you do when you're menstruating," he explained snottily.

"I don't –"

"_Lassie, _a collie with even more masculinity issues than Chase,rescues Timmy. From quicksand, cliffs, and mine shafts but _never_ wells, because Timmy never _fell_ into a well."

There was something incredibly amusingly lame about the bravado with which House spoke, and as annoyed as she was, she couldn't help but smile a little. "I can honestly say that I didn't need to know – or care about – any of that. Still, my point is the same: you're looking for a puzzle… and there _isn't_ one."

But he clearly wasn't ready to agree with her. "I'm assuming the blood on your shirt is from your lip."

"I bit through it on accident," she explained vaguely. There was no need to go into detail if she didn't have to.

"Nauseous?"

Her eyes narrowed on him. "What?"

His voice was a lot colder this time. Talking to her as though she were an idiot, he asked her, "Are you nauseous?"

"_No_. Of course not."

"Abdominal pain? Excessive thirst or urination?"

"House, I'm fine," she snapped. But when he just continued to look at her as though she were supposed to answer the question, Cuddy sighed and begrudgingly added, "No, no, and no – to all of it."

Even then though… his eyes kept surveying her for some answer or explanation to a question she didn't know. And it worried her to see that he wasn't dropping the matter.

Not that letting things go was his strong suit, but in this particular instance, he had no reason to suspect that something was wrong. He'd seized hold of something she had no idea how to talk him out of, and she didn't know how long he would persist or how far he would go to find what he wanted.

Frowning, she took a step towards him. "House," she said gently. "I'm fine. There's nothing –"

Suddenly House's eyes lit up, and he asked, "Who'd you see today?"

Her hands clenching into fists, she spun around and stalked back towards the island. If he wasn't going to let the matter slide, then she was going to change the conversation by bringing it back to the damn Reuben. "You're not my keeper, and I don't need to tell you who I _saw_."

And then, without any consideration for her stitches, Cuddy grabbed the sandwich and took a big bite out of it. She chewed it quickly, _viciously_, and noted almost immediately that there wasn't anything even remotely like a pickle nestled in the delicate slices of beef.

"Tell me anyways," House said sternly.

Cuddy tossed the sandwich back onto the plate and swallowed harshly. Ignoring the command, she told him accusingly, "You lied. There's not a single pickle in this sandwich. You –"

"That's not possible." He sounded more annoyed than concerned, and after a second, he added, "She must have picked them out before I tossed her. And anyway, who –"

"Or you _lied_," Cuddy accused. "Because if there had been pickles on the sandwich, then the taste would still be there. Since it's not, you either lied or _hallucinated_ a condiment. And like I told Cassandra, you're insane, but you're not _that_ insane."

House reached around her and grabbed the controversial lunch. He inspected it carefully, his gaze roving over it as though he expected it to be poisoned. Eventually though he seemed satisfied that it was safe, and he took a bite, defiance in his eyes.

At first there was boredom flitting through his features, and it was obvious that he was anticipating a mouthful of pickles with the only upside of being right. But as he chewed, Cuddy noticed the expression on his face changing.

He was accepting what she'd already figured out – that there were no pickles and his lie had been unveiled.

But if she expected him to concede the point, his reaction was nearly the opposite. Now granted, he didn't swallow the bite of food and continue fighting her on the sandwich. Yet he didn't apologize or admit that he'd been wrong either. Instead he just kept eating the Reuben while veering the conversation back to what he wanted to talk about. Swallowing eagerly, House asked, "So who were you with again?"

"Let it go," she told him in a frustrated voice.

Taking another bite, he said casually, "Just answer the question. You don't think your rank odor is important; I do. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. How much of an inconvenience is it to you to say who you were with?"

At that moment, she realized there wasn't a good enough response she could offer him. There wasn't anything she could say to make him drop the matter at the moment, so she had to answer the question.

Scowling she told him, "Fine. I was with donors for part of the morning and with your team and Wilson for the rest."

He looked at her carefully. "Any of them smell funny?"

"Of course not."

"I assume you're discounting Kutner's normal scent of –"

"I have no idea what he normally smells like," Cuddy cut across quickly, fearing she would learn more about Kutner's life and scent than she ever wished to know. "And I don't want to know. So assume that I am discounting that, yes."

There was a brief lull in the conversation before House asked, "You didn't see patients?"

"No," she replied absent-mindedly. "I spent most of my day trying to keep your team organized and catching up on paperwork."

Her answer was obviously unsatisfactory to him. His eyes narrowed on her even more than they already had, and though his tone was almost conversational, there was no missing the directness in his words. "So then which one of _those_ people tried to strangle you? I mean I know Taub's been known to smack a bitch, and I can certainly understand the impulse, but…"

On instinct her hands journeyed to her neck, her fingers lightly pressing into the injured sinew and tissue. The area was sensitive, which was to be expected, and it took all of her effort not to hiss in pain at her own actions. "I'm bruising that badly already?"

"I can make out a thumbprint," House told her with a shrug.

The casualness in his voice angered her, _pained_ her. As much as she might have suspected that he didn't care, she didn't want to hear him confirm that. "Thank you for being oh so concerned with my well being," she said sarcastically.

Scoffing House replied in a similar tone. "I'm glad you're okay. But if you wanted someone to hold your hand and tell you everything was going to be okay, you're old enough to call Mommy or say that that's what you need." Finishing off half of the sandwich, he added, "You didn't say anything, which I took to mean that you didn't want to talk about it."

Cuddy sighed in defeat. He was right, of course; he was _always_ right, it seemed, and in this particular moment, she didn't have energy to fight him. "You're right," she conceded.

"What was the diagnosis?"

It certainly wasn't the question she was expecting. "Hmm?"

"Again, although I understand the temptation to strangle you, I'm guessing there was something medically wrong with this person to actually make him give _into_ that temptation." He sounded as frustrated with her as she felt with him. "So what was the diagnosis?"

"There wasn't one."

It was an answer that he didn't like; she could tell that much by the way a sigh caught in the back of his throat. But it _was_ the truth. She'd been attacked before any diagnosis or understanding could be reached. And though it was annoying to House to not have an answer to the question, she wasn't going to pull something out of her ass just to make him happy.

"What do you _mean_ there wasn't one?"

She gestured to her throat and face. "_This_ happened before –"

"What were his symptoms," House demanded to know. The way he said it, it didn't even come out as a question, and she balked at his attitude.

"It wasn't that kind of situation," she explained in irritation.

"Then –"

"He came in… agitated. The nurses thought he was a drug seeker. They called security and me. I tried to distract him while security got off of their asses." She shrugged. "I failed, and they were slow."

She thought that it would end there, that he would _stop_ there.

But he didn't.

He just kept pushing.

"And you didn't notice anything wrong with this guy?"

"He tried to strangle me, House," she said in a mournful tone. "I noticed something was wrong. _Yeah_."

House picked up the second half of the sandwich and began to eat it. "He eeeHe smell?"

The question sparked her memory. The events in the clinic came to life once more, flashes of it burning a path to the forefront of her mind. And she didn't even have to think twice before nodding her head. "Yeah," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Diabetic ketoacidosis," House announced proudly. "You probably thought he was drunk or wearing too much cologne."

"But…" She sounded more dazed than she would have liked, her head suddenly beginning to pound as the connection between everything was made.

"When he attacked you, his scent must have rubbed off on your clothes and skin. It explains why I could smell it on you, but you don't have any symptoms of diabetic ketoacidosis."

He was so at ease with the medicine. Not a single instance of hesitation, not a moment's pause – he was completely comfortable with diagnosing someone he'd never even seen. And the most amazing part about that was that… he was _right_. She didn't want to believe it, but everything he was saying was making sense.

Shaking her head a little, Cuddy admitted, "I thought…" Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard, unable to wrap her head around his diagnosis. "But he wasn't in the clinic to be treated. He just wanted drugs. He wanted _lidocaine_."

House thought about it for a few seconds before hypothesizing, "Coke dealers use lidocaine to make their product seem more potent than it is, and cocaine use can _cause_ diabetic ketoacidosis." Cocking his head to side, he also offered, "_Or_… try this on for size: he knows he's sick, so he goes to the hospital. But like every moron with a computer, he Googles his symptoms before deciding he needs a doctor."

Cuddy nodded her head to show that she was following along, and House continued. "He diagnoses himself, and lets pretend that he's got an ounce of intelligence and he actually gets it right. Unfortunately, by the time he gets to you after waiting for a couple hours in the clinic, his body's producing acidic ketone bodies as quickly as you'd hop into bed with the first guy who –"

"I get the point," she interrupted quickly.

He shrugged. "There's a logical explanation for all of it."

"And I missed it," she said, feeling the guilt seize hold of her in a way she couldn't hide.

"Doctors tend to get sloppy when they're being strangled."

In his own way, he was trying to comfort her. She could tell that that was what he was aiming for with the softly lobbed sarcasm. But the truth was it really didn't make her feel any less culpable. If anything, his attempts to make her feel better only accentuated the knowledge that she'd screwed up. Because if he felt the need to cheer her up and not mock the hell out of her, what she'd done couldn't have been something small and meaningless; it had to be something he deemed bad enough to feel guilty about.

"Yeah? Well… it probably means he's dead – or going to be dead," she said in a bitter voice. "Security never caught him, and I don't think it's likely he'll come back to the hospital." Or go to _any_ hospital, she thought to herself; if what House was saying was true, then the man who'd attacked her was close to death, terrified, and confused by her refusing to help him. And if all of that were true, it was probably likely that he was too stricken by fear to know where to go next, to know how to get the help he needed. So…

His disease would ravage him.

And he would die.

Of that she had no doubt.

But House didn't agree, because he said, "If he has any understanding that something's wrong with him, he'll choke as many people as he has to in order to live." She nodded her head feebly but didn't reply.

Which he was clearly annoyed by. She didn't understand it, but apparently, he was taking her silence as a way of disagreeing, as a way of _rejecting_ his support. And maybe he felt affronted by her, because he wasn't used to putting himself in this position. He really _wasn't_ the type to go to for support, obviously; so maybe the fact that he _had _done just that – and she'd resisted his efforts – pissed him off.

Really, it was idle speculation on her part, but she could definitely tell that he wasn't pleased by her silence. Because even if she hadn't noticed the hardening of his facial features, she couldn't miss the bitterness in his words. "But maybe you're right. Maybe he's wandering around like a wounded puppy, dying slowly and in agony. Your narcissism would like that a lot more, huh – if he died, because you didn't _magically_ see what was wrong with him."

One of her eyebrows raised, she immediately asked in confusion, "I feel guilty, and the way you want to stop that is to call me a narcissist?"

House scoffed at the question. "I think I _did_ try to be nice about it. But you didn't want to believe that things could turn out okay, so I thought I would go ahead and state the obvious: you think that you're the only one who could save this guy. You think that there's nobody else _anywhere_ who can diagnose him."

"This isn't about my ego," she defended, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers; she could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on, the inkling sensation of a pounding head looming over the conversation. "I realize that someone else could diagnose him. Someone else _did_ diagnose him: _you_. So as much as I would like to believe that my medical prowess is leagues above everyone else's…"

Her voice trailed off into a sigh. She realized just how pathetic it sounded. Even to her own ears, there was something _so_ abysmally shameful about almost admitting to _House_ that she wasn't blessed with the same intellect. "I didn't see it," she said finally. "And I feel guilty about that, which is hardly indicative of narcissism."

"You missed the diagnosis," he replied breezily. He was acting like it was a small mistake – hell, like it wasn't even a mistake to him _at all_. And it bothered Cuddy to know that, because she doubted he actually felt that way at all. How could he, when he despised being wrong and having incorrect answers?

Swallowing hard, she said in a much less confident voice, "You can't tell me that that's not a big deal to you."

"You were attacked. You got distracted. You made a mistake," he said with a shrug that was somehow anything but casual. "Get over it."

Each sentence he uttered came across as a stark statement that left no room for disagreement. Apparently, he'd decided that his version of events was the correct one, and anything she had to say, any reservations she might have had, was all frivolous and ultimately meaningless. Her input deemed useless in his eyes, he meant every word he said.

He expected her to get over it.

And that infuriated her.

He was brushing her opinion to the side, which was annoying enough; although she'd just conceded that he was probably smarter than she was, Cuddy did _not_ think that that meant he could just ignore her views. _Especially_ since she'd spent practically the last two months caring for him, consoling him, tending to his every physical and emotional need as best as she could….

It was heartbreaking to realize that he had no intention (if no ability) to reciprocate.

And knowing that, she couldn't help but respond in kind, "You were in an accident. You killed Amber. Get over it."

Immediately there was silence. Heated but somehow also cold, quiet descended on them. Words completely forgotten, they weren't needed for Cuddy to know that what she'd said had hit home. His jaw was suddenly clenched tightly together, and his gaze narrowed on her, the rest of his features looking pained.

Flickers of regret lapped at her insides. A desire to apologize instantly sparking inside of her, the feeling burned hotly when he said, "Here's the difference: I was being nice; you're just being a _bitch_. And while you get plenty of chances to learn how to be a doctor, I don't think Wilson's interested in giving me any more chances to _not_ kill his girlfriends."

There was anger and accusation in his tone, but there were the sounds of guilt in it as well. They were so palpable her entire body ached in empathy, and though she'd meant every word she'd uttered, she couldn't help but feel guilty about it now. Because as angry and frustrated and _offended_ as she'd been… she understood now that all of that emotion had been directed at the wrong person.

Sighing she held her hands up in defeat. "You're right… I didn't mean…" She stopped talking, knowing that he wouldn't believe that she hadn't meant what she said. So she simply apologized. "I'm sorry. It's just been… a horrible day, and I don't want to fight anymore."

House looked at her as though she were crazy.

Either he wasn't used to her capitulating so easily or he hadn't expected her to do it now – or both – and he was suspicious and confused by her words. "That's it?"

"No," she replied, remembering that she had the lidocaine in her briefcase. Digging through the leather bag that remained on the kitchen counter, she explained, "Afterwards…" She couldn't find the energy within her to say after she'd been attacked, and Cuddy only hoped that House could follow her train of thought. "I was talking to Wilson."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see House stiffen at the mention of his best friend. There was no need to ask why he was suddenly discomforted; Cuddy knew, and she had no desire to press the matter, easily adding, "We were discussing why this man might have wanted the lidocaine."

Her fingers clutched the vial of medicine in her bag, and she pulled it, along with some syringes, out of her briefcase. "Wilson mentioned that it was a treatment for tinnitus. If you want to try it."

The words had barely left her mouth before he eagerly snatched the lidocaine from her hand. It was an impulsive act, one Cuddy found to be monumentally stupid. "I know you want to get rid of the noise, but you can't give yourself an intratympanic injection."

"Well, neither can you," he replied snottily, slipping a syringe from her grasp.

She rolled her eyes. "I know that you think I'm completely incapable of being a doctor, but I _can_ actually administer an injection."

Of course, by the time she finished speaking, he'd already unwrapped the syringe and filled it with lidocaine. "House," she implored in a calm voice. "Let me do it." Obviously the chances of him handing over the syringe were slim to none, but she hoped that he had enough common sense to realize that trying to inject himself in the ear was an impossibly tricky business.

"It's too dark in here," House said simply. "The lack of oxygen clearly affected your brain when you were thinking this plan through, because you'll never be able to see what you're doing."

"And you will?" Hands on her hips, she asked, "You got eyes that you can detach from your body and maneuver around, so you can see the side of your head?"

"Of course not."

With those words, he took the syringe and jabbed it into the right side of his neck, which happened to be the same side his tinnitus had presented itself. The needle pricked a little below the mastoid bone, and the knuckles of his large hands brushed against the delicate curve of his earlobe as he depleted the syringe.

And Cuddy, for all of her medical training and experiences with House, stood there dumbfounded. "What the hell are you –"

"Sternocleidomastoid muscle shares innervation with parts of the ear," he explained easily, recapping the syringe and tossing it onto the kitchen counter… as though it _weren't_ medical waste. "I don't trust either of us to directly access the nerves I'd like to _deaden_, so I thought it would be a good idea to _indirectly_ get to them."

He paused for a second, his whole demeanor suddenly changing to pained. Gingerly placing the vial of lidocaine onto the counter, he added, "I'm sure there's an anal sex joke to be made here –"

"Oh good."

"But seeing as how sleeping with me is the most action you've gotten in years, I'll refrain."

A sarcastic response lie on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be hurled towards him. And yet the words began and ended within her, never leaving her body as she caught sight of his increased pain. She'd spotted the beginnings of it seconds before, but she'd expected it to pass – as it usually did when they were lobbing quips at one another like this.

Now, though, she could see that his agony wasn't going to lessen anytime soon. If anything, it had seized hold of him in a way that had left him stunned and silent and her stepping towards him.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was as soft as her fingertips on his shoulders.

He cringed at the sound of her voice anyway.

But Cuddy waited him out nevertheless, knowing that at some point an answer would come. And though it took a few minutes, he did eventually tell her with effort, "Tinnitus is worse… the room's spinning… and I'm gonna puke."

His breathing was heavy, his voice uneven with pain. The color in his cheeks was practically white, and she didn't doubt that he was close to being sick.

Nodding her head, she whispered, "Okay. Lets get you in bed." Her hands moved to his back. Her touch gentle, she tried to guide him away from the kitchen island, but he refused to let go. His fingertips were nearly white from the effort of gripping the lip of the counter tightly, almost as though he didn't trust himself to take a step away from it.

"C'mon," she urged in a warm but firm voice. "I'll guide you."

Still he didn't listen, instead choosing to miserably murmur, "It didn't work. The lidocaine didn't work." He sounded so incredibly defeated; it made her frown more deeply than she imagined possible.

"I know. But that doesn't mean that there isn't _something_ out there that can make you feel better," she consoled. "We'll keep looking… But right now, I think you need rest. You haven't slept in a few days, and your body needs rest."

Reticence read on all of his features. For a brief moment, she worried that he would say no, but he surprised her by closing his eyes and nodding his head. He didn't speak, but the small act was all the concession she needed.

One of his arms draped across her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. And she in turn wrapped an arm around his waist, so she could guide him wordlessly to the bedroom. They moved incredibly slow, each step gingerly and thoughtfully executed as though it were a complex dance.

By the time they crossed the threshold to the bedroom, House was sweating. His perspiration dripped off of him in rivulets, and she could feel his musky warmth along the back of her neck and shoulders. Another reason to take a shower as soon as possible, she thought bitterly.

As she pulled the covers back, she considered complaining about it. Part of her could justify it to the rest of her self, she knew; he'd spent the whole day screwing her over while she'd cared for him, and she would have liked nothing more than to point out how thankless a job nursing him was.

Instead Cuddy helped him into bed. He was in no shape for a fight (even if she was), and besides, her anger wasn't really at him. Hell, she wasn't even truly _angry_. She was just tired – _exhausted_ – dirty, frustrated, and overall the emotional equivalent of a dishtowel that had been rung too hard. And so, as she unceremoniously dropped the covers on top of House, she muttered, "I'm taking a shower."

There was no question in it, no opportunity for him to ask her for something – although she did smartly move the trashcan in the room next to the bed (just in case). Her words were a statement as firm as she could make it without being cruel. Which was precisely what she wanted; although she would have gotten him anything he'd asked for, Cuddy wanted – _needed_ – him to comprehend just how big a priority showering was for her now. And as she, clean clothes in hand, disappeared into the bathroom, she patted herself on the back for getting that message across perfectly.

Glancing at herself briefly in the bathroom mirror, she felt a taste of retroactive fear niggle at the back of her throat.

She looked like _shit_.

There was no other way to describe herself at this point.

Her hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed in days, bushy curls tangled in on one another. Her bottom lip was swollen, giving her a constant pout that, coupled with Wilson's row of neat, tiny stitches, made her look ridiculous and pathetic. The purplish ring around her neck and the blood smeared on the front of her sweater only accentuated that fact. And it all combined together to give her the deep impression that if Wilson hadn't barged in to the exam room…

Cuddy sighed and didn't finish the thought.

It was enough to know what might have happened; she didn't need to say it – or, well, _think_ it. So she pushed the thought to the side, telling herself that what _could_ have happened wasn't nearly as important as what _had_ happened.

As she pulled her skirt over her battered knees, she tried to focus on how things had changed for the _better_ today. Things with House were roughly where they'd been before, which wasn't good _or_ bad really, but Wilson no longer looked at her as though she'd shot Amber in the face.

To be honest, Cuddy wasn't sure she'd deserved such forgiveness. It was an almost ironic stance to take, she realized, as she stepped into the shower. After all, she'd been the one to _ask_ Wilson to forgive her. And if she'd really, truly felt so unworthy of it, she shouldn't have taken the initiative to get it. But in any case, part of her still wondered… no, part of her still believed that his anger towards her had been deserved.

As Cuddy shampooed her hair, she understood that House must have been feeling the same way. Wanting Wilson's friendship, all the while knowing how wrong it was to ask for it… for the first time, Cuddy thought that she was in the same boat as House. Or maybe not, because she could talk – no, she _had_ talked to Wilson and taken a step forward where as House hadn't.

But they _were_ in the same ocean of… _whatever_, the metaphor slipping from her mind as easily as soap slid down the curves of her hips. However you wanted to say it, Cuddy decided that it all amounted to the same thing: they were desperate and desperately waiting for Wilson's friendship.

The only difference was, at this point, Cuddy was getting it.

House… was _not_.

Whatever she'd done for Wilson professionally today, whatever she'd said to him... that hadn't done much for her. But coupling that with him seeing her get attacked had earned her the smallest of stepping stones to something better. They weren't back to the way things were, of course. And Cuddy thought that there was a good chance that they never would be. They would probably never have the cool camaraderie that they'd had in the past again.

She accepted that much, accepted it almost _happily_, because she thought that they _could_ develop something more meaningful now.

Obviously it was too early to tell either way, but she felt that today had been the beginning of a _real_ friendship with Wilson. She'd shown him – well, she _hoped_ she had – that she could, that she _did_ trust him as much as she trusted House professionally. And although Wilson had talked to her about House, he hadn't been the focus of the conversation, and there was something incredibly _wonderful_ about that. In the very least, it had given her a chance to talk to Wilson as someone other than a co-conspirator.

Sighing into the humid air, Cuddy told herself not to put too much faith in today's events. Maybe conversations with him would be more at ease, but she couldn't count on it. Frankly, given her luck, it would take a hell of a lot more than being strangled to get her back into his good graces.

The depressing thought clung to her consciousness in the same way her wet hair stuck to her neck and upper back.

As she washed away the last remnants of soap, she frowned, feeling as though nothing that lie outside of the bathroom was worthwhile.

… Of course, there wasn't much _in_ the bathroom that was either.

But at least there was hot water beating down her aching back in here; at least there was the feeling that she was getting exactly what she wanted and anticipated, no emotional tripwires or interpersonal landmines existing for her to step on. Quite frankly, the peace the tiny room was offering was something she wasn't eager to move away from.

Yet she knew that she had to. Her skin was beginning to prune. The water would soon start to cool, and if that happened, House wouldn't be able to take a bath for at least another hour. And although _he _probably wouldn't care all that much about it, Cuddy knew that _she_ definitely _would_; as used to his smell as she was, it wasn't exactly something she wanted to sleep next to.

Pushing her wet hair off the back of her neck, she knew she had to get out, even if she really didn't want to.

Cool air hit her in the face the second Cuddy pulled the shower curtain back. She hadn't noticed the air conditioning on before, but there was no denying its presence now.

She scowled at the change in temperature and quickly reached for the clean clothes she'd brought with her. It was easy to slip into the yoga pants and t-shirt, which was a nice contrast to the careful and conscious primping she'd had to do this morning. Combing her fingers through her hair, Cuddy exited the bathroom in a matter of minutes.

House, possibly still dealing with the side effects of the lidocaine, would probably make fun of her appearance. He was used to seeing her look a _lot_ better with tight skirts and low-cut tops and hair coifed in such a way as to make her look like something _other_ than a drowned terrier. And as she dumped her dirty clothes in a laundry hamper in the hallway, she resigned herself to hearing about just how terrible she looked.

But oddly enough, when she entered the bedroom, he murmured his _approval_ – not his disdain. He was lying in the bed where she'd left him. Only he must have moved, because the rabbit, the _stupid_ rabbit that she kept forgetting to return, was now also on the bed with him. It was trying to burrow itself under the covers on _her_ side of the bed.

Cuddy silently fuming at the possibility of rabbit pee (or worse), she was taken aback by House saying with a smirk on his face, "No bra…. Daddy likey."

His eyes were roaming over her body as though she were standing in front of him wearing pasties and a g-string with a box of condoms in her hand.

Well, what else was new?

She rolled her eyes and lackadaisically told him, "Don't put the rabbit on the bed." To emphasize the point, she grabbed the creature and placed it back in its pen. "And don't call yourself _daddy_ when you're looking at me like that. It's creepy."

As she gave her side of the bed a quick pat to see if there were any wet spots, House replied, "Yes, Mommy."

"I can only assume that, since you're back at your usual level of asshood, you're feeling better," she said, crawling under the covers next to him.

Immediately her peevishness evaporated, and she closed her eyes happily. The heavy blankets on top of her instantly removed the chill that had settled on her. A soft pillow caressing her cheek, it was all she needed to be content at the moment.

Not even the smell of sweat and sandwich meat wafting off of House could pull her out of her bliss. Because, despite the burgeoning desire to take a hose to him, there was something comforting about the obnoxiousness of his presence. It made her feel…

Safe.

It was odd, because House was hardly the protector type. If push came to shove, he'd let her take the hit before he even considered getting involved. But then again, he was such an asshole that anyone wishing her harm would feel compelled to kill him first, which would give her time to escape….

And why she was even thinking about this now, she didn't know. Just the thought of a deliriously tired woman, she supposed.

Forcing her eyes open once more, she didn't want that to be the last thing in her mind before she fell asleep.

Her attention and gaze focused on House, she asked, "_Are_ you feeling better?"

"Peachy," he muttered. But then as an afterthought, he conceded, "About the same as before I took the lidocaine."

She nodded her head in understanding but didn't say anything. Honestly, she wasn't sure what she _could_ say to him to make him feel better. I'm sorry, perhaps?

The apology didn't sound right in her head, and she had no doubt that he would agree with her on that. So she decided to remain silent and wait him out.

And when he did speak moments later, she wished almost immediately that she _had_ said something. He was looking for clarity when he asked, "This was Wilson's idea?" But she could tell that something else, a theory of sorts, was being mulled over in his mind.

"He mentioned it as a treatment for tinnitus," she said, her gaze focused on him. Although she couldn't tell where this was headed, already, Cuddy could tell that she didn't like it.

House looked at her carefully before looking up at the ceiling. He was quiet with concentration, his crow's feet more prominent as he considered some unlikely possibility in his mind.

Finally he asked, "And he knew that this was for me?"

Belatedly she answered. "No… He just speculated on his own that…"

She didn't finish the thought.

Rolling away from her, House had clearly already made up his mind on how the conversation with Wilson had gone. And nothing she could say was going to change that, more than likely.

But she supposed she had to try.

Rolling over onto her side as well, she scooted her body along the mattress until her chest was pressed up against his back.

The move was bold, one she hadn't thought out at all. And almost immediately she reconsidered the closeness as soon as she realized what she was doing. Because while any sane person would say that she'd already crossed a line, somehow each breach of said line felt more inappropriate than the last.

But Cuddy also understood that she couldn't pull away now. Not really anyway, because rolling away from him would only point out what she'd done.

As a result she stayed where she was and returned her focus to House's interpretation of Wilson's lidocaine suggestion. "Don't let your mind turn this into something it's not," she told him quietly. "I know that it would have been nice if Wilson had told me about the lidocaine to help you, but that's just not how it came up." She was trying to be as kind as she could about the whole ordeal, but she wasn't sure that House was buying it. "Please don't take this personally."

"Wilson hates me," House replied slowly in a low, depressed voice. "If he'd known that you were going to use what he told you to help me…"

It hit Cuddy then that there was a definite possibility that House's tinnitus might never be cured by medicine alone. As much as she'd considered his brain injury, his depression, and his antidepressants, she hadn't really thought about any of it beyond the physical aspects. Decreases in serotonin had crossed her mind, yes, but the way _his_ mind could convince his body that there was pain had _not_.

The box she'd been thinking in seemed to burst into flames at that realization, hurling her into a world that she hadn't even understood was there. To no exaggeration, the knowledge smacking her in the face made her feel as though she'd combined hydrogen and oxygen together for the first time _ever_, the possibilities this one fact brought endless.

She'd considered so many things. She'd berated herself for not finding an answer that would work and despised the entire situation she'd found herself in, _because_ there'd been no solution in sight.

But now… there was a whole realm of possibilities she had to look at, and quite frankly, she relished it.

Thinking about it some more, of course, she felt like an idiot for having not seen it before.

His pain – the tinnitus – was more than likely psychosomatic.

He'd had this problem before. When Stacy had quit working at the hospital and moved away with her husband, House had been in an exorbitant amount of pain. He'd been in so much agony, so blinded by it, that he'd been willing to do almost anything to make it stop.

Cuddy had seen as much when he'd demanded morphine in his spine.

And how she'd ever been able to push _that_ incident out of her mind was beyond her understanding, because now it was all she could think about. _Now_ it framed every event of the last two months and painted House's behavior in a light she hadn't considered before.

All of the pain he'd been feeling, all of the physical things she'd tried to manage with medication – if it had a psychological basis, then nothing she'd been doing was ever going to help.

And knowing that, knowing that House's problems could be psychosomatic, Cuddy understood what it was that she had to do:

She had to deal with the psychological issues behind House's pain in order for him to get better. And in this particular case, there was only one foreseeable way of handling this specific problem.

Wilson.

She would need to get Wilson to forgive House.

She would need to get the two men back to a place where they could be friends again.

But _how_ to do that… she had no real idea. Getting them in a room would be hard enough. Although she suspected she could get them together through simple lies, Cuddy understood that they would both completely shut down once they learned the truth. Wilson would leave or House would act like a jackass, and all of her lies would be for naught.

At the same time, though, it wasn't exactly like telling them the truth would yield much better results. House was afraid – _literally_ afraid – of what Wilson might say, so House wouldn't agree to a meeting.

And Wilson wasn't going to be much better.

If anything, he would be _harder_, because at least she had a good relationship (well, as good as it could be) with House. Wilson, on the other hand, didn't trust her much if at all these days. So getting him in the same room as House… well, it would require her to use what little cache she had left, and even then it would probably be a resounding failure. Because on top of getting them in the same location, there was the issue of getting them to say to one another all of the right things.

And _that_ would probably never happen.

Actually, that more than likely _couldn't_ happen.

What Wilson needed to say and what House needed to hear and vice versa were nearly polar opposites. Wilson needed House to accept responsibility for what had happened to Amber, but House _desperately_ needed Wilson to say that he didn't blame him for her death. And since both men were impossibly stubborn, Cuddy doubted that a conversation between them could go well.

Yet it was so clear to her that, for all of their sakes, it was what had to happen.

It was what she had to _make_ happen.

Reiterating that sentiment unknowingly, House spoke up suddenly, "He wouldn't have told you about the lidocaine if he'd known that it was to help me. And when he finds out that you _were_ trying to help me…"

He didn't finish the thought.

But then he didn't really need to. Since she was pressed up against him, she could feel the tiny shifts in his body. She could feel the deep, shaking breaths he was taking and the small motions he made as he rubbed at his injured thigh. It all spoke for him, telling her that he was worried… upset.

Instinctively she wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing him closer to her. "Wilson isn't going to find out, and if he does, he's not going to care that I used his idea to treat you."

Spooned up against him, Cuddy could feel his body reverberate lightly as he confessed miserably, "Wilson hates me."

"That's not true," she told him immediately, feeling his fingers lace through hers. "He doesn't hate you."

House shook his head. "Yeah. He _does_."

"Wilson is trying to make sense of what happened to his girlfriend," Cuddy said in a quiet, imploring voice. "He's mad and upset, and he needs time. But he does _not _hate you."

Truth be told, she wasn't sure how believable she sounded. Her words, as reasonable as they were, were ones that she couldn't even convince herself of. As much as she wanted to believe that Wilson could forgive House, at this point, Cuddy didn't know if that was actually possible.

And if House felt similarly, he didn't tell her. He just lay there next to her in silence for a few moments before completely changing the subject. Teasing her, he said, "So this really _is_ the most action you've had in years, huh."

"Go to Hell," she replied in kind, the words devoid of any harshness. But even so, as he tucked her hand into his chest, it was blatantly obvious:

They were already in Hell.

And if they ever hoped to get out, it was up to her to make that happen.

That knowledge weighing heavily on her conscience, it took her a few minutes to fall asleep. Her head on his pillow, when she finally did succumb to exhaustion, she was still holding his hand.

_End (14/15)_


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Notes: Well, the end is here. It's been a long journey; trying to get to this point has taken a lot of time and energy, but I'm finally done. I wish I could spend a page and a half thanking everyone who decided to take the journey with me, but alas, the chapter is already too long. So I will simply say thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed and kept pushing me to finish this. Mostly though, I would just like to thank my beta, Olly, whose efforts made this fic possible. There aren't many people in the world who would look at a chapter this long and still be up for the challenge. Thank you so much, Goosey, for agreeing to read all of this and everything else that came before.

_Disclaimer: It's not mine._

**Edge of Chaos**  
**Chapter Fifteen: Control of Chaos**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"_[Arnold's cat map] is a simple and elegant demonstration and illustration of some of the principles of chaos – namely, underlying order to an apparent random evolution of a system. An image (not necessarily a cat) is hit with a transformation that apparently randomizes the original organization of its pixels. However, if iterated enough times, as though by magic, the original image reappears." – "Arnold's Cat Map" by Gabriel Peterson_

She woke to an empty bed. Her fingers instinctively ran the length of the fitted sheet to see how long she'd been that way. The mattress all around her cool, it meant that she'd been alone for a while, and Cuddy sighed sleepily at that knowledge. It was still dark outside, maybe a few hours since she'd fallen asleep at _most_, and he was already gone.

It wasn't that she'd expected House to spend the night spooning with her. That would have been the equivalent of asking a walrus to tap dance, and if she'd had to bet on which were more likely to happen, she would given the animal the benefit of the doubt. But what she had _hoped_ was that his insomnia would take a back seat to his need for sleep.

Then again, she'd also hoped that her exhaustion would have allowed _her_ to sleep through the night. And clearly she'd been wrong about that for reasons she was just beginning to understand. When she'd first woken up, she'd been too tired to recognize what had made her wake. She'd assumed it was House – or rather, a _lack_ of House – but now Cuddy could tell what her problem was.

Well, she could _feel_ what the problem was:

Her throat.

The entire length of her neck ached painfully, and her throat burned as though her attacker's hands were still squeezing the life out of her. In the back of her mind, she'd expected some discomfort, but this was worse than she'd imagined, because it not only _hurt_ more than she though it would.

It also proved to be an unwanted reminder of what had happened.

Pushing the sheets off of her body, Cuddy forced herself to shut down her train of thought. She could see where this was headed; she could tell what would happen if she kept thinking about it. She knew that the more she thought about it, the more she would fixate on how badly things could have ended. And if she did that, then she would turn into the kind of woman she would absolutely _despise_ being – the kind who was _afraid_ and _weak_ and everything she tried not to be.

Which would be bad in and of itself but made _so_ much worse by the fact that she was in _House's_ apartment. If he were to see her give into her blossoming fear….

She'd never hear the end of it.

She was sure of that much.

And even if she were wrong about that part, even if House refrained from humiliating her, she would never forgive herself for it. Because of all the lines she'd been willing to cross, this – being _vulnerable_ like this in front of him – was not one of them; this seemed too risky, even for her.

But then that wasn't anything knew, she supposed. Cuddy had once said that Wilson was a safe option compared to House, and she still believed that to be true. He was too good at stripping away all of her defenses, at reading her inner most thoughts, and manipulating both of those things to get what he wanted. And though she understood that he was considerate of her most of the time, maybe even a little reluctant to hurt her, there was always the danger of him doing just that. When he was in pain, when they were seriously fighting with one another – her weakness was exploited to the max. So voluntarily letting her walls down to let House in…

She was _always_ hesitant to do that – and probably always would be.

Then again, there were times when she _had_ opened the metaphorical door for him. When he'd discovered her foray into fertility, she'd reached out for him.

And she hadn't ever regretted anything more.

He'd tried, of course, to be kind to her. He'd _tried_ to be a supportive friend, and she would never deny that fact; he'd done the best he could.

But so too could she not deny that, in the end, he'd used all of that information against her. When push came to shove, House had thrown her fears of motherhood in her face. He'd known exactly what would hurt her, armed by the parts of herself she'd given him access to, and he'd crushed her with it.

And frankly, Cuddy wasn't interested in repeating the experience again by revealing just how shaken up her brush with the mad man in the clinic had made her. Although she suspected that he wouldn't make fun of her _now_ for feeling the way she did, she _couldn't_ rule out him using all of this against her in the future.

But more importantly, she reminded herself that she had _never_ been a fan of collapsing into a heap of tears and bemoaning all of the terrible moments in life. Had she been one of those women, she would have never been as successful as she had been – as she _was_. Cameron had once scoffed at the idea of revenge for motive to work hard, but what the younger woman hadn't realized was that there was _nothing_ more powerful than taking control of your emotions and channeling them into something useful.

Unfortunately for Cuddy, channeling her almost suffocating fear into productivity of some sort was an option with limits at the moment. On the whole, in the past, when she'd wanted a distraction from her personal life or from her emotions, she'd relied on work.

But this time, that couldn't happen, because she hadn't brought home any work with her; she'd been in such a hurry to get the hell out of the hospital that she hadn't really considered taking anything, aside from the lidocaine, with her. That didn't mean, however, that she couldn't do something with herself.

What activity that would be, she didn't yet know. But she figured that there was no way she'd distract herself in House's bed (and she silently thanked God then and there that House couldn't read her mind, the sex jokes he'd make over that comment alone), so she pulled herself to her feet.

In the very least, she thought at that moment, she could figure out where House had ended up and what he was doing.

Rubbing her neck lightly, she padded out to the living room. All of the lights were off, but the television was on, casting an odd blue glow onto all of the furniture and shapeless shadows onto the walls. _The Great Escape_ was playing on the screen, but the room was silent, save for the rain, which must have started to pour in buckets while she was sleeping, pinging against the windows.

She could only assume that the movie was on mute because of House's tinnitus. And the idea that something as simple as a film might make his life unbearable made her frown deeply.

Taking tentative steps towards the couch, Cuddy wasn't surprised when she discovered House, wide awake, sprawled out on it with a blanket lying on top of him.

Her voice huskier than usual, she asked, "Did you sleep at all?"

He shook his head. "It started to rain right after you started drooling on my shoulder."

"I don't drool," she fought back. Her voice cracked like a thirteen year old boy going through puberty, and she frowned at that; although she knew her larynx was physically okay, the little damage that had been done made her nervous.

It made her remember.

"You do," House said, interrupting her thoughts unknowingly. "But when I got up, I just assumed you'd slobber on my pillow. I didn't realize you'd wake up, because I was gone."

Cuddy fought the urge to hit him. Tersely she instead explained, "I didn't wake up, because you were gone. Although I'm sure you think that I'm desperate for your body, I'm really not." House scoffed, but she ignored his vote of confidence by jutting out her chin and adding, "I only woke up, because my throat hurts."

Admittedly it sounded like a lie. More precisely, it sounded like a weak, _lame_ lie that she would cling to when the truth worked in his favor. But oddly enough, she wasn't lying. Her throat did bother her; it _had_ woken her up, and it wasn't her fault if it sounded like a lie, she told herself peevishly.

Closing her eyes, she waited for the insulting reply House was sure to utter. She had no doubt that he would say something quick and cutting; this _was_ House after all, and honestly she embraced that fact for the first time in a long time. She didn't exactly _want_ to be insulted, but at least it was a distraction. Which was what she wanted, she reminded herself silently as she braced herself for a fight.

Yet no fight came. Instead House's demeanor completely changed in that instant. "Come here," he said quietly, in a tone that didn't quite approach friendly.

Her eyes popping open, she looked at him suspiciously. She hadn't expected this kind of reaction, and to be honest, she didn't know what to do or say. Insults she was used to, this… not so much. And she needed a few seconds to assess the situation.

However, at this point, Cuddy was too tired to really do that. Her eyes burned with the desire for slumber; every muscle in her body ached, and really just wanting to go to bed, she figured the sooner she cooperated, the sooner she could find an outlet for her to pour all of her emotions into, the sooner she could go back to sleep.

Resigned to her fate, she trudged around the side of the couch. Wordlessly House rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow so she could sit down. Of course, she didn't _sit_ as much as she ungracefully flopped down onto the sofa.

House's warm fingers immediately went for her neck, which made her flinch embarrassingly enough. She muttered something about his hands being cold as he brushed her dark hair onto her shoulders, but it was a throwaway line. One she had no doubt that he _didn't_ believe. The worn pads of his fingertips lightly palpating the injured area, she was nothing short of relieved when he didn't comment on the lie. Rather, he asked her, "I assume someone looked at your neck when you had your lip sutured."

She nodded her head, even though it was only slightly true. Wilson had seen the injury first hand, but he hadn't given it a thorough exam. And she was okay with that, because having a detailed examination would have made her uncomfortable.

"You're lying," House deduced knowingly, his gaze trained on hers heatedly. "But you'll be fine. Take an aspirin; drink some cold water, and shut up. Talking will just make it worse."

Cuddy scowled. "Stop picking fights with me, and I won't _have_ to keep talking," she replied snottily. "And nice bedside manner. No wonder I have to set aside thousands of dollars every year to pay for your legal fees."

House bristled at the comment as though it were the most ridiculous thing on the planet. "The point is you'll be fine. Now get out of the way, so I can finish watching the movie."

But she didn't move. "You should be sleeping," she told him softly.

His response was a quick "can't."

"You haven't slept in days. Your body needs sleep in order to heal."

"And _yours_ requires you to stop talking. So. Stop talking."

He was annoyed, clearly so. His jaw clenched together in rhythmic intervals, and his eyes flashed brightly with irritation. Cuddy would never tell him this, but she could always tell when he was angry with her from his eyes alone; the blue of his irises, for some inexplicable reason, became bluer, clearer. And right now they were about as blue as they'd ever been.

She didn't really understand why he was suddenly so irritated with her. But he obviously was, which led her to believe that his exhaustion was affecting him more than he'd initially led on. "You're tired," she said suspiciously.

"Shut up." He was scowling as he said it, but while he did so, he tugged the edge of the blanket out from under his body. Holding it up in a welcoming way, he told her, "All right. If you're going to keep annoying me, at least lay down, so I can see the screen." When she suspiciously raised an eyebrow in response, House hastily added, "Relax, Gidget. I'm not trying to seduce you."

"Thank God for that," she muttered without thinking.

He gave her a dark look before finishing his train of thought; "I'd just like to watch the part where they actually _escape_, since that _is_ the whole point of the movie."

She was about to say something in return, something along the lines of "You should be in bed, not watching a movie you've seen fifty times," but she didn't have the chance. House was too quick to bark out, "Either lie down, go away, or I'm going to finish the job and smother you with a pillow."

His words were cool if not downright cruel. Yet the hand between her shoulder blades was still warmly pressed into her flesh, taking the bite out of everything he was saying. And she didn't know if it was because of that or the stupidity that came part and parcel with exhaustion that made her do it, but she did what he'd told her to do. Pulling her legs up onto the sofa, she laid down next to him on her side.

It wasn't the most comfortable position for her. House, being a jerk, was hogging both of the throw pillows, his head propped up against them. For a brief moment, she contemplated demanding one, but realizing success was unlikely, she peevishly kept her mouth shut. Pillowless, she had to rest her head on her hands to keep out of House's line of sight, which made her neck ache at the slight strain placed on it.

Even less comfortable than that was House's arm trapped beneath her. The limb wedged between the couch and her body, it pressed awkwardly into her rib cage. His hand was lightly curled against her side, and she could almost delude herself into thinking that he was _holding_ her. Almost _only_, thank God, because if she'd actually been able to believe House was holding her while spooned up against her, then she would have had to admit that she was more insane than she'd previously suspected.

It wasn't that she wouldn't _like_ to believe that he could be that emotionally comfortable and open with her. Truth be told, she'd uncharacteristically yearned for that the last two months. If only because it would have made dealing with Amber's death all the more easier, Cuddy had wished that House would confide in her. But he wasn't able to do that for whatever reason, and she couldn't pretend that they were different with one another.

Of course, she couldn't really find fault with him for maintaining his distance. She preferred to do that herself, after all, so how could she judge him for doing the same thing?

Besides, they worked best this way. Stuck in the fuzzy nexus between friends, enemies, and lovers, they were most at ease with one another when they avoided settling into any specific set of labels. Why that was, she didn't really know. At best, she had a theory that maybe they both needed the freedom being more and less than friends offered, because it allowed them to say and do all sorts of things no friend, enemy, or lover could, would, or should say or do. And she was complacent with that fact if occasionally angered and frustrated by it.

What she _wasn't_ content with was their current situation.

Now granted, she couldn't deny that there was something bizarrely and inappropriately _nice_ about lying on the couch with a man pressed up against her. But in this case, it wasn't relaxing in the least. If anything the whole thing was completely _unnerving_ for her.

As he tucked her in underneath his blanket, she had to wonder what was happening between her and House. One minute they were fighting; the next they were spooning, and the disjointedness of it all made her tense and unable to focus on the movie or House.

Considering everything they'd both been through, she supposed that it wasn't all that odd for them to be… seeking comfort in one another. It had been a really long time since she'd been in a relationship, but from what she remembered, it wasn't bizarre for two people, who had both individually been through so much, to come together like this.

In fact, it almost made sense, she thought. They'd always been obviously attracted to one another; they'd slept together before. She'd been living with him for two months now, and she'd been taking care of him that entire time. And although he hadn't reciprocated on that end, Cuddy _had_ just been through something… _slightly_ traumatic, she conceded. All of that together, it seemed like foregone conclusion on paper.

But that didn't make it _feel_ any less weird in reality.

Focusing her gaze on the movie playing, she wondered if House felt the same way right about now.

Of course, she sure as _hell_ wasn't going to _ask_ him. That would just end in disaster, she knew. So instead she complained, "Although I'm sure _you've_ seen this movie a thousand times, I haven't, so can we _please_ turn up the volume?"

House made a face at her but ultimately complied by reaching for the remote on the sofa's elbow. Frankly he was all but happy to do that; he hadn't intended to use this scenario to cop a feel of Cuddy's breasts (he'd really just wanted her to shut up). But when she'd lain down on top of his arm, the side of his hand had been sweetly pressed against her boob. And if he, hoping to get a little double-the-funbag-double-the fun action, could press his luck even further by using the remote to change the location of his free hand, he was going to.

Turning up the volume, he snidely asked her, "Happy?" As he made a dramatic show of giving her what he wanted, he masterfully worked to get what _he_ wanted.

"Hmm," she said with a slight nod of the head. "If it makes you feel better, I'll fall back to sleep soon," she explained.

"Tired?"

She nodded her head once more. "And I'm going to go in to work early tomorrow if I can… assuming I can trust you to be alone."

At that moment, House felt some part of himself sour at the thought. He didn't know why that was, but for whatever reason, something in her words made his mood change. Not that he'd been in a good mood before, but nevertheless, melancholy – he could feel it – was creeping up on him. And he had to fight it off to return to the task at hand.

Literally.

Forcing himself to ignore her words (and that was easy to do as groping always came before explaining his emotions), he dropped the remote around the upper part of her rib cage before allowing his hand to follow.

He was subtle about it – make no mistake: he was sly about the whole thing. A lesser man would have gone straight for the prize, but he was smarter than that. Instead of cupping her greedily, he merely allowed the flesh between his thumb and index finger graze along the underside of her cleavage.

Having had some practice in this particular art, House moved his hand in such a lazy way that, to Cuddy, it would just seem that he _happened_ to rest his hand near her chest. And if, at some point, his fingers also _happened_ to drift farther north, well… that would seem like an accident too.

Okay, so it sounded a bit… date rape-y; although he never claimed to be the most moral person, the way he was thinking made him seem far more loathsome – even to _himself_. But in his own defense, he wasn't _hurting_ her, and he had no intention of doing so. If she told him to back off, he would.

And in the meantime, he was going to enjoy the few parts of her he did like, he thought with a smile.

Or not, he realized immediately, frowning as Cuddy told him in annoyance, "Stop trying to feel me up."

Weakly he tried to defend his honor. "I'm not –"

"_Yeah_, you are."

Shifting his head on the pillows, House said, "Okay. Maybe I _am_, but it's accidental."

"No, it's not," she dismissed under her breath.

"Where else am I supposed to put my hand?" He dramatically pulled it away from her and let it hang in the air. "Your _enormous_ ass is taking over the rest of the couch."

"Oh, it is _not_." She tugged his hand down in irritation, pushing it towards her stomach. "And if you were _so_ worried about my ass, which is, in your estimation, apparently the size of Lake Tahoe, you shouldn't have insisted I join you on –"

"I didn't _insist_," he interrupted irritably. "I gave you a choice to either join me, get the hell out of the way, or _die_. You're the one who decided to smother my thighs with your backside."

At first Cuddy didn't say anything. Her jaw clamped shut, she remained silent for a few moments before exhaling a deep, shuddering breath. He couldn't deduce, not from this angle anyway, if she were more angry or frustrated. But he didn't doubt that she was feeling both.

When she sat up as though she'd been hit by a bolt of lightning, she quickly gave him an answer. She grumpily angled her body so that she could face him, and he could see the frustration in every line of her features. Her arms folded across her chest, she pointed out, "This is why you and I will _never_ –"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he interrupted mockingly with a fake pout on his face. "Did you think that this was an attempt on my part to seduce you? Make you my _girlfriend_?"

"I don't know what you're trying to do," she confessed unexpectedly. "I don't even think _you_ know at this point what it is you're trying to do. You're just…" She paused, sighing on an exhale. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. "You keep doing these things that I don't understand and…"

She said more after that, but by then he'd stopped listening. He was too affronted by her insane implication that he was the one pushing this thing when clearly _she'd_ been the one to start it.

And he decided to tell her as much.

"Last I checked, _you're_ the one who's been all touchy feely with the hugs and –"

"Because you are _so_ unhappy," she defended in a high-pitched tone that made his ears ring. "You are _so_ intent on pretending like losing Wilson doesn't mean anything, that losing _Amber_ doesn't mean anything, and –"

Angrily he interrupted by throwing what had happened to her right back at her. "And how's it feel to have the crap strangled out of you?" Sitting up, he suggested, "If I'm acting like something bad hasn't happened, one thing I know is that I'm not alone, now am I?"

Her entire demeanor changed. In a matter of seconds, she'd gone from frustration to deeply yearning and now to infuriated. Her voice low and filled with disbelief, Cuddy said, "I _cannot_ believe that you would bring that up."

"Then you must not know me at all," he replied easily with a shrug.

"After _everything _I've done for you, you're going to bring that up now." She nodded her head as though she were just beginning to understand something about his character.

And secretly, House kind of wished she would share whatever knowledge she had with the class, because he really had _no_ idea why he was picking this fight with her. She'd mentioned going back to work tomorrow, and everything about the way he approached this moment with her had changed. Had changed so much that he couldn't even begin to trace the evolution of his mood.

But if she could do that, she didn't tell him – much to his dismay. She was too busy waiting for an apology that would never come to explain to him what had happened. And when he didn't give her what he wanted, Cuddy stood up angrily. "Fine," she snapped. "Be an asshole and sleep on the couch. I'll leave your medication on the counter before I leave."

And though she'd essentially ended the conversation right then and there, she didn't make any move to leave. She just kept standing there, still expecting that apology more than likely.

Truth be told, House wouldn't – _couldn't_ – deny that she had the right to demand such a thing. He'd picked this fight with her; he'd pushed her.

He'd _hurt_ her.

And that absolutely earned her an "I'm sorry" or two.

However…

All of his experience from the last two months and years preceding them had taught him that an apology always came with a cost. And that price tag didn't just come in the form of a bruise to his ego; it also involved the humiliation of having to then explain why he'd created the fight in the first place – or at least, the embarrassment of having to come up with a half-decent lie on the spot to explain his behavior. Because he couldn't just say, "I'm sorry" and be done with it. She would, understandably, want to know why he'd done what he'd done.

And in this case, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what his reasons were. One hundred per cent, _absolutely_, they couldn't be good ones or ones he could easily explain away. So knowing that, he refused to pursue the matter any further. As much as he liked to break down the mechanics behind any person's decisions, this was one time where he wasn't going to be going anywhere _near_ that.

In doing so, though, he was forced to remain silent, resistant to Cuddy's imploring look. And _that_ made her angrier than any reply he could have uttered would have. Glancing at her enraged features, he could tell that much just by looking at her.

Her lips had thinned out into a single, straight line of dissatisfaction. In the seconds of quiet he'd given her, her chin had puckered together; whether or not that was out of the desire to yell at him or to cry, he didn't know. After a beat, he thought that the answer was probably both.

In the end, however, she did neither. Her head bowed slightly toward her chest, she stormed off instead. The sounds of her harried footsteps were echoed by the way Steve McQueen rhythmically bounced his ball against the walls of his solitary cell.

It was enough noise for House to instinctively reach for the remote once more. As he put the television on mute for the second time that evening, he couldn't help but wonder:

Why the hell had he just screwed everything up?

* * *

A loud series of knocks yanked Foreman from slumber only mere minutes after he'd fallen asleep. His head having _just_ hit the pillow, he was in no mood to get up to see who amongst his friends and family had no human decency. But he supposed he had no choice when the person at the door just kept on knocking – not if he wanted to get any sleep anyway.

Lamenting the interruption, he didn't even ponder who was at the door as he trudged out of his bedroom. In hindsight, when it was all over, he supposed that the answer to the un-asked question was obvious. But at the time, he couldn't have cared less about what it was the knocker wanted. And that feeling didn't really change when he yanked the door open and saw Thirteen, her eyes rimmed red, standing in front of him.

Her hands were nervously tucked into the pockets of her skinny jeans, and an awkwardly forced conciliatory smile on her face, she asked, "Can I come in?"

Foreman found himself nodding his head before he'd even had a chance to realize that he really wanted to say no.

She took a few steps into his apartment, her heeled boots scuffing lightly on the hardwood floor. But she didn't venture in any further, as though she was too afraid to.

He didn't think it was a matter of consideration for his feelings. Thirteen had never struck him as the kind of person who would care about whether or not _he_ was comfortable with her being in his apartment. Given how she'd had no problem drugging House to get a biopsy of his liver, Foreman didn't doubt for a second that she would have busted right through the door if it had suited her purpose to do so.

And that meant that her discomfort now was all about _her_.

As if to prove the point, she nervously glanced back at him as he closed the door; she looked as though he'd just barred her only potential exit as though she were reconsidering her decision to come here altogether.

Honestly, more than anything, Foreman found her growing indecision to be rather annoying. He'd been _asleep_, enjoying one of the few minutes of peace he'd been afforded in his once-more growing work schedule, and here she was treating him as though he'd forced the meeting.

Sighing, he tried to keep the impatience out of his voice as he prompted, "What's up?"

She didn't reply right away. At first she just stood there, rocking back and forth on her heels in indecision. But when he started to ask her again, she was quick to answer by pulling a piece of paper out of the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. "Here."

He took it but didn't look at it. His gaze was blurry with the desire to sleep, and frankly he didn't feel like reading anything when she could just _tell_ him what was going on. Pretending to glance over it, he asked, "What's this?"

She cleared her throat and forced out in a tense voice, "It's my letter of resignation."

Foreman didn't react.

He didn't know _how_ to react.

He wasn't even sure he'd heard her right – he _mustn't_ have heard her right – and he didn't know what to say without looking like a complete idiot. He wanted to ask her if she'd actually said that she was quitting, but doing that was essentially admitting that he had no idea what was going on.

Then again…

He was tired, and he kinda didn't.

Parroting what he thought he'd heard her say, he asked doubtfully, "Your letter of resignation?" She nodded her head but didn't give him a single reason for why she would take such a drastic action. "_Why_?"

Thirteen shrugged immediately. But then she must have figured out that that was a _really_ lame way to respond to his question, because she nervously tucked a thin strand of hair behind her ear. "You were right," she admitted, swallowing hard. "I've been terrible at my job."

Inwardly, Foreman cringed. Moments like these were the reason he didn't have a girlfriend. It was why he _chose_ not to have a girlfriend, he mentally corrected upon realizing how pathetic his original statement made him seem. By saying he just didn't have a girlfriend made it seem like he couldn't get one, and he could _definitely_ get one if he wanted to. No matter how empty his social calendar had been the past three or four months, he still had game (he refused to even consider otherwise). He'd just made the conscious choice _not_ to use it.

All of the hand holding, all of the reassurances that needed to be made – he _hated_ having to do that. Especially after a long day's work, he didn't have it in him to be sympathetic. And this particular instance wasn't any different. He _really_ didn't want to have to spend the next couple hours trying to make her feel better – not when he could be in his warm bed sleeping and dreaming of less complicated women who only wanted one thing from him.

But it wasn't meant to be, he lamented with a frown.

He would have to make her feel better, even if he didn't want to, if he hoped to ever get any sleep tonight. And knowing that, he was quick to say, "I didn't mean –"

"No," she interrupted quickly, an understanding smile on her face and a small chuckle escaping her thin body. "No, you were right. _Completely_ right about the way I've been acting."

Well, this was new, he thought, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. "I am?"

"I've been a terrible doctor," Thirteen said simply. "I was… only thinking of myself this entire time." Laughing joylessly some more, she confided in him, "You know, I can't even remember the last time I paid attention to a differential; I've been so focused on Huntington's and tests and what…"

Her voice trailed off in a defeated sigh, the shift in behavior making Foreman wonder if she'd ever been diagnosed with a mental illness.

Okay, that sounded bad. He understood that some form of insanity was what most people (but especially men) cited when dealing with a person (especially women) they didn't understand. But in this case, this was more than sexism, more than an inability to understand where she was coming from; she was going from nervous to something approaching manic and now bottoming out again. Her moods were unpredictable and all over the map, and it made Foreman's head spin as he desperately tried to keep up with her.

Yet he didn't understand the change in mood until she finished her initial thought with a graveness that nearly took his breath away. "What will happen to me."

But that didn't make him feel any less confused. "And you think quitting will help you forget about what's going to happen to you?"

She shook her head and shifted her weight onto her heels. "No. I…" She closed her mouth solemnly before trying again to speak. "Talking to you made me realize that I've been avoiding work for a _reason_."

"And that reason would be… what exactly?"

Gesturing to herself, Thirteen explained, obviously in pain, "I _know_ I'm going to die… sooner rather than later. And watching you walk out of the bar, seeing you go back to a job where you deal with life and death – it made me realize that I _can't_ do that anymore."

He sagged against the front door. This certainly wasn't going to be a short conversation – just as the conversation where he had to tell House that Thirteen had quit wouldn't be a short one either. "So you're just going to, what, drink all day and night until your disease progresses? Because that doesn't exactly seem like a good way to spend the rest of your life either," he told her with more than a hint of unintended bitterness in every word. Apparently he couldn't be nice or understanding about this, even if the situation dictated that he be so.

"No," she agreed after a moment of silence. "You were right about that too."

"Then what _are_ you going to do?"

She looked nervous and shrugged shakily. "I don't know… swim across the Chesapeake Bay? Run the New York or Boston marathon? Build some homes with Habitat for Humanity? I don't know."

Instantly Foreman shook his head, seeing the problem in her plan… or in her lack of one. He'd been through this before with friends and colleagues who'd quit med school or dropped out during their residency, and he knew what would inevitably happen with her.

She would probably consider herself unique in this, but Foreman knew that she wasn't, that she _wouldn't_ be. Because she like the rest of them would be lost without the job, without the rigors and schedule of being a doctor. And if she had a set of goals, if she knew what she wanted to do, she might be okay. But just quitting like this…

It wouldn't end well.

Deciding to tell her this, he explained in calm, even tones, "You want to quit your job – I can understand that… I guess. But before you do that, you have to have a plan. You have to _know_ what you're going to do. Or you'll spin out of control and end up in more pain than you're already in."

"No, that's what's going to happen if I stay here, doing a job that I don't want to do." Jamming her hands into her pockets once more, Thirteen said slowly, "When I showed up for House's… _insane_ job interview, I was taking a risk. I was seeing how good I was, how far I could push myself. And House hiring me showed me that I _was_ good."

But Foreman disagreed with her assessment. "Being hired is an honor, but it doesn't make you _good_ much less a great doctor. It just means that House sees promise in you, promise that you're willing to waste, because you, what, can't deal with other people suffering at the same time as you?"

He could feel himself scowling at her, and he didn't mean to sound so hateful, but he couldn't help it. She was throwing away a good opportunity for reasons he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. "I don't get that," he added after a moment.

"I don't expect you to." She started to head for the door, but she couldn't get out unless he were to move.

And frankly Foreman wasn't interested in doing that just yet.

"Wait a minute," he said, holding his hands up. "You can't just say that and leave."

"What else is there to talk about? I said all I needed to say." He bristled at the comment, which forced her to add, "You obviously don't like what it is that I want to do with my life, and you've said what you wanted to say. And I've heard it, so… I think we're done here."

"You need to think about this some more."

"Believe me when I say that I _have_ thought about it. I can pretend to think about it some more if that will make you happy, but I won't change my mind," she said obstinately.

But Foreman remained unmoved. After all, as much as she wanted to act like she was in charge of this situation, the fact was he could refuse to accept her resignation. Or worse, he could take this bit of information to House, and she could deal with _his_ insanity.

Feeling the need to share that info with her, Foreman said, "I don't have to accept your resignation. I also don't have to wait until you've taken a plane ride to Cambodia to raise orphaned chimpanzees to tell _House_. And he'll be even less understanding than I am."

She scoffed at the threat. "You wouldn't tell him."

"I will."

"Cuddy won't let you."

This time he was the one to scoff – not only because their fight was beginning to sound like two children threatening to tattle, but also because he knew Cuddy way better than Thirteen did. "You've worked for House how many months now? Seen him do _how_ many underhanded things to avoid Cuddy yelling at him? You really think I haven't learned a thing or two along the way?"

"Well, you haven't exactly learned how to be a doctor like him, so I would say yes to that question," she said with a thin, predatory smile.

The insult wounded him as was intended. Even though he understood rationally that she was just lashing out, it was hard for Foreman to cut the emotional part of him out of the conversation. And in the end, he couldn't help but feel anger and defensiveness creep into his system.

His spine becoming ramrod straight, he asked her, "How many people did _you_ kill this year?" When she blanched at the question, he knew that his words had had their effect. "We've _both_ made mistakes. We've _both_ killed people."

There was more regret in those words than he would have liked.

He didn't mean to fixate on the patients he'd killed; he didn't _want_ to do that, anyway. But he couldn't help himself. The guilt had lessened but not by much. It still felt like a very heavy part of him that he couldn't shake, that he couldn't avoid thinking about.

And Foreman could see the same emotion flitting through Thirteen's eyes in reaction to what he'd said. So he went in for the kill. "The only difference between you and me is that I'm still trying to be as good as House is."

At that moment, suddenly, Foreman could see what he'd been trying to achieve all of these years; he wanted to be as good as House – he wanted to save lives like House could. And though Foreman supposed he'd known that for some time, he could finally appreciate what all of his struggles had been for.

The past two months, there'd been nothing but cases he'd failed to diagnose, and he'd questioned whether or not he'd ever be good enough. He'd been trying so hard to outdo House, to escape all of the trappings of House that Foreman had failed to remember just how much he'd already learned.

How much he _could_ and _would_ learn.

And though that didn't make everything better, didn't take away the sting of failure, for the first time in a long time, Foreman could see the point in the struggle to be better: he might not ever be as good as House. But then again, Foreman _also_ wasn't doing what Thirteen was doing.

Instantly he accused. "You don't want to learn just how great you are. You want to settle for just making the team. You learn you have this disease, and you want to throw everything away for it."

She bristled. Swallowing she argued weakly, "That's not what I'm doing."

"Sure, it is."

"I'm _accepting_ my diagnosis," she told him snottily, accentuating every syllable in each word.

His reply was a doubtful "_Right_. People who've accepted that they're ill forget about everything they hold dearly."

"I _have_ accepted it. I have Huntington's Disease, and I'm… okay with that. I've accepted that there's nothing I can do about it."

But she didn't sound as confident that time, and Foreman could see that. The bite in her words was gone, and she seemed more hesitant than she had only moments before. And he decided to use that to his advantage by taking a gamble.

"You know what?" He stepped away from the door. "If you want to quit, that's fine. I'll accept your resignation and give it to Cuddy tomorrow night, and _she_ can figure out when and how to tell House."

"Good," she said earnestly, moving towards him, so she could leave.

"I'm not finished," he told her in a stern voice that stopped her in her tracks. "If that's what you want, fine. But if you actually want to give your life meaning, if you want to enjoy what time you have left, you'll show up for work tomorrow. You'll do what you would have done if you _weren't_ sick."

One of her eyebrows raised, she asked, "Are you done _now_?"

He nodded his head, knowing that there was nothing more he could do or say to stop her from making this mistake.

"_Wonderful_." Thirteen opened the door and stepped into the hallway with more assurance than she'd had when he'd first seen her. Which made complete sense, because she was pissed off, incensed by his refusal to say what she wanted to hear.

He didn't feel too bad about upsetting her though. If she was going to come here in the middle of the night and wake him up, then Foreman felt that he had the right to say anything he damn well pleased.

As he closed and locked the front door once more, he wondered if he'd done the right thing. From what he'd seen, Thirteen was on the verge of destroying herself long before Huntington's ever did. And because of that, Foreman wasn't entirely sure how she would respond to what he'd said; really, it could go either way, and one wrong word, he knew, would make things worse.

But as he lazily headed back towards his bedroom, he also knew that what he'd said had been true. All of the things he'd told her had been more than just empty conversations and threats. And though she would probably _want_ to deny that, if she had any brains in her….

Well, of course, she was smart. If she weren't, then House would have been wrong to hire her, and Foreman knew that, more than anything, his boss was capable of spotting intelligence in others.

So that meant that Thirteen would have to see the truth. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but at some point, she would realize that giving into her illness and self pity was a mistake. And when she did that, the very _second_ she did that, she would come back, more potent than she'd ever been.

Lying down once more, Foreman smiled in the dark. A fact appearing to him as though it were bathed in bright, white light, there was no doubt in his mind that she would be back eventually. He mightn't have been as smart as House, as _gifted_ at instinctively knowing what people were thinking or trying to do, but Foreman knew that much.

Yes, she would come back.

* * *

Right before dawn, Wilson woke with an angry start that was so violent the muscles in his body twinged from the effort. He was drenched in sweat, Cuddy's sheets wrapped tight around his legs. And he struggled to put air in his lungs, his mouth hanging open and his breathing obnoxiously loud.

He'd been dreaming of Cuddy.

_Not_ in the enjoyable sort of way he sometimes did either.

This had been nothing short of a nightmare, the day's events clearly plaguing his mind. In the dream, Wilson had imagined her bleeding, choking, dying… _dead_. Her lifeless corpse on a cement floor, her dark hair spilled across her pale cheeks. Her pupils were dilated, empty, and unfocused. And though he'd only stumbled across her in the dream, it had been enough to send Wilson reeling into consciousness.

Sitting alone in bed now, he was torn between the impulse to laugh and the one to call Cuddy in a panic to make sure she was okay. The latter was really the most instinctive. All the years of being concerned for the women around him, picking up the phone seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do.

House had once said that he was only attracted to women in need. Wilson didn't think that was one hundred percent true, but at the same time, he couldn't deny that he had almost always been drawn to women who needed help. And this wasn't all that different.

Except that it kind of was.

Since Amber had died, he'd told himself that he should care less about others. He'd decided that the reason his girlfriend had died _at all_ was because he hadn't been able to see what was most important to him; he'd simply given everything – House, his patients, his lover – equal importance, an equal share of his heart, and that had left Wilson exhausted and ultimately alone.

Knowing that, he thought it made no sense to feel the need to call Cuddy now. She had a place in his life, but she certainly wasn't the most important person in it. She'd decided to live with House, and hadn't that been all the proof Wilson had needed to see that she didn't value him as much as he thought she did? Hadn't that been reason enough to say to himself that he didn't have to support her and befriend her every single minute of every single day?

Apparently the answer to those questions was a resounding no. Not even the fact that Cuddy seemed okay by the whole incident with her patient calmed him. Wilson couldn't help but think that was odd; if anyone should have been upset by what had happened, it should have been her.

It should have been the _victim_ in the entire attack.

And maybe she was to some extent, but for the most part, she seemed… peeved that someone had had the audacity to strangle her, downright furious that her security team had failed her, and overall eager to move past the event.

Really, given the way she was acting, Wilson thought that the most natural thing to do would be to drop it, to pretend that nothing had ever happened. It was what she clearly wanted and something that he understood would be relatively easy to give her. Certainly, it would be easier to say nothing than to initiate a conversation about her feelings on almost being murdered.

That thought embedded in his mind, it didn't help his impulse to laugh at his own concern.

One would think, he thought ruefully, that with two brothers, he wouldn't have the personality of his Jewish grandmother. One would _think_ he'd be able to resist the urge to ring his hands and to be worried about every little thing.

But clearly something had gone wrong in his childhood – or suffocating amounts of sympathy were written all over his genes – because he was _still_ reacting to nearly every situation with worry.

Honestly, the only person it seemed he could remain cold to these days was _House_. And even that offered little comfort to Wilson, because he hadn't seen House in months. So it probably wasn't all that difficult to not care.

Except…

It kind of was.

Wilson sighed, yanking the covers off of his sweat-soaked body.

As he got out of Cuddy's bed, silently giving it a glare as though it were responsible for his nightmare, he had to admit that even hating House was harder than it should have been.

Oh, he didn't want to be _friends_ with the man who murdered his girlfriend.

That would _never_ happen if he had anything to say about it.

But… if today had proven one thing, it was that diagnostics was harder than Wilson could have imagined. There was more pressure, more room to fail than he had realized. As much as he'd known that there would be a considerable amount of guesswork and trial and error, he hadn't been prepared for the feelings of failure. Which was odd, because Wilson was an _oncologist_ – the kind of doctor who routinely had to deal with the very dark and real aspects of the medical profession.

Before today's patient, he'd had more than his fair share of sick kids and patients too ill to survive chemo. He'd seen the ones who were too optimistic to suffer the indignities of a bald head, the ones who were too defeated to bother with treatment, and everything in between. And by comparison, diagnostics should have been a cakewalk.

Actually, considering the regularly positive results he'd had in House's department before today, Wilson had actually _believed_ that working there more permanently would be easy.

But it hadn't been.

Not at all.

As he padded to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, he felt a pang of guilt thrust him into full consciousness. He'd been so distracted by what had happened to Cuddy that this was the first time since it had happened that he considered how awful it really was to have failed his patient.

That family had looked to him for all the answers… and he'd only been interested in proving to everyone that he was better than House, _above_ him. They'd wanted a cure, but Wilson had involved them – both his patient and his team – in his _curse_.

Which was what it was really at this point.

A curse.

His inability to choose Amber – well, _himself_, he supposed – over House and everyone else had set an entire series of disasters into motion. He'd gotten Amber killed, injured House, lost his best friend, forced the woman Wilson would consider his next best friend out of his life, killed this girl, probably helped break up Chase and Cameron…

The list went on and on, and if he stopped outlining the last two months of his life, it wasn't because he'd run out of bad things that had happened. Nearly gotten Cuddy killed, pissed Thirteen off so that she didn't show up to work anymore – it never ended, it seemed.

Plopping down on Cuddy's couch, a glass of water in his hand, he sighed. For all of the distance he'd tried to put between himself and House…

With the way things were going, it just seemed like Wilson was becoming more and more like him. And with that happening, it was becoming harder and harder to judge House, to hate him, to believe that anyone other than Wilson himself was responsible for everything that had occurred recently.

Placing the glass of water on the coffee table, a loud clink piercing the silence, Wilson understood:

It would be a while before he fell asleep once more.

* * *

Two days had passed since their argument on the couch, and they still hadn't resolved the matter. Of course, in order to solve an issue, Cuddy supposed that you had to know what it was that was actually causing the problem. And in this instance, she had _no_ clue what had made things with House turn so bad, so fast.

Her instinct was to blame it on his head injuries. Irrational behavior, emotional lability – they were all classic symptoms of traumatic brain injury, and he'd definitely had enough trauma to bring out both of those things.

But then that almost seemed like an easy answer. To not look at the big picture, to not examine all of the things that had led up to the fight and just give into the simplest diagnosis… it felt like cheating even if a head injury would explain those things.

Yet, as she sat at her desk, she could only think that there was no deeper explanation to be found. For all of her searching, she hadn't discovered any definitive reason for his behavior. At most, she had a couple of theories but nothing good enough to sway her one way or the other. If anything, retracing the events had only made it even more clear that one second he'd been holding her and things had been so _nice_ and then the next… fighting with him over something that didn't even make sense.

It wasn't a matter of intimacy.

She'd decided that much early on, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that it wasn't about the closeness _itself_. After all, if House had been _so_ afraid of being close to her, then he shouldn't have – _wouldn't_ have – asked for her to join him on the couch. And surely, if it had been a matter of realizing belatedly that he didn't want the closeness, they wouldn't _still_ be fighting now. Things would have been cool, yes; he would have tried to keep her at a distance, obviously, but he would still _talk_ to her. He would still look at her when she entered the room. But House was so pissed off, he wasn't even eyeing her cleavage.

Cuddy couldn't even remember the last time that had happened.

_Actually_, thinking about it now, she was pretty sure that had _never_ happened before. For as long as she'd known him, he'd never passed up the opportunity to get a look (or to even be so bold as to _stare_) at her body. But now, he was all but totally uninterested, and that made her even more confused.

Part of her _had_ considered that maybe, after practically groping her on the couch, House had simply had his fill of her. Maybe, after all of these years, he'd grown tired of drooling over her looks.

That seemed unlikely though. The last two days, she'd decided to test him by dressing as provocatively as she could get away with; the skirt she was currently wearing was so tight she could barely sit down in it. And none of that had provoked him into saying anything even remotely sexist or disparaging. Which she took to mean that either she'd suddenly lost the figure she'd worked so hard to maintain (which she doubted) or he'd lost all interest.

But she couldn't believe that he'd become uninterested that quickly. And even if he _had_, what sense did it make for him to completely ignore her for two days? How was moping around the apartment with _Hitler_ the appropriate alternative to constantly making sexist remarks?

She had no answer for those questions, and though she longed to once again cite his brain injury, she resisted the temptation. Because House, even in his current state, didn't do things without reason. There was _always_ a reason, _always_ some sort of twisted logic, behind his behavior.

It would be something she'd done, something she'd said to upset him. It would be something he'd thought of in the middle of the night that drove him to his mood swing. And even when she couldn't quite understand why he would react to the event in the most negative way possible, she'd been able to see how he'd gotten from point A to B.

But there wasn't anything like that with this particular fight. All she'd done was join him on the couch on _his_ insistence. How could he be mad at her for doing what he'd essentially forced her hand in doing?

It didn't make any sense for that to be the case… unless his whole goal had been to lull her into doing something he could then reasonably yell at her for. But even that was convoluted enough to seem unlikely. And in the end, it would have meant that she'd done something earlier in the week to piss him off, and she couldn't think of an event that had occurred that was _also_ worth creating this entire scheme.

Sighing not for the first time today, Cuddy knew that she needed to accept that she was at a loss; she had _no_ idea why they'd gotten into a fight. But somehow… that was actually hard to do. As easy as it should have been to say, "I don't know," it wasn't.

Granted, she'd never been particularly eager to admit that she was clueless about something. Given that her entire _life_ had been about demonstrating how knowledgeable she was, it was hard – if not _impossible_ – for her to accept that she might not ever understand this one thing. Especially since House was involved, guaranteeing that this wouldn't be the end of it, it was difficult.

And Cuddy was ready to replay the events of the past week in her head again right then and there, work be damned. But she didn't get the chance; Wilson knocking on her office door and coming inside stopped her.

A kind smile on his face, he asked her, "What's up?"

She looked up at him, a blank expression purposely on her own face so as to mask her feelings.

And not just those feelings she was having about House.

To be completely honest, Cuddy was more ambivalent about her current relationship with Wilson. Although she'd been the one to press for their friendship to move forward past Amber, it was still odd and confusing to take those first few steps with him. He'd been so angry with Cuddy, even two days ago, that it was downright _weird_ for him to be coming into her office with a friendly expression on his face.

That there was this whole shared experience of… the _attack_ didn't make things any less bizarre. At best it just made her feel even more indebted to him, made her feel even _more_ unworthy of his friendship.

She shook her head to clear her mind of the unwanted thoughts flitting through it. "Not much," she forced herself to answer. "Just trying to get some paperwork finished."

Wilson looked at her carefully. "You seemed distracted when I first came in. Everything okay?"

"Fine," she replied quickly.

Too quickly.

But if he didn't believe her, he was considerate enough to refrain from accusing her of lying. Instead, he asked a more targeted question. "Your voice is deeper. How's your neck feeling?"

"It hurts," she admitted uneasily. "But it could be worse, right?"

Wilson didn't say anything in response. Nodding his head, he looked at her as though he wanted her to tell him more, which made her shift in her seat in discomfort.

She _really_ didn't want to talk about this… any of it. Even more, she didn't want him to look at her as he did all of the needy women he ended up marrying. Although she wouldn't deny that Wilson was quite the catch, the last thing she _ever_ wanted to be was a weak person who couldn't take care of herself.

Yet, in a way, she didn't see a way to avoid being that in this case. Wilson had _saved_ her life, and as much as she wanted to forget that, she couldn't. She doubted she ever would, and because of that, she felt completely unable to deny him anything he wanted.

Knowing that, she capitulated quickly. "You know… if it hadn't been for you, I…" She sighed and pursed her lips together in a tense, puckering manner. "That _man_ probably would have… well, you _know_. I just… thank you."

She exhaled loudly as she forced the words out. The effort required to say thank you, even in the awkward, halting way that she had, was almost more than she could bear. And by the time she was finished, she couldn't help but feel exhausted.

"You don't have to thank me," Wilson told her.

Shaking her head, Cuddy disagreed, "Of course, I do."

"You would have been fine either way," he reassured her. Shrugging he said, "I mean… if you're willing to deal with House on a daily basis, you can handle anything, right?"

The comment made her scowl. "Are we going to go through this again?" Her voice was calm, even, but beneath all of it, there was an inkling of frustration.

"Relax," he said hastily, holding his hands up in the air to show that he was capitulating. "Just a joke."

She eyed him carefully but said nothing, which hopefully said everything to him.

"_Really_. It's just a joke," he insisted. And when that didn't get her to loosen up any, he added, "All I'm saying is that you're a strong woman and –"

"Okay," she interrupted quickly. The last thing she wanted to hear was how _strong_ she was. After all, only _weaklings_ ever needed to be told _that_, and knowing that, she didn't want Wilson to humor her.

But he didn't understand that. "Okay? I'm singing your praises here," he said slowly, clumsily. "You don't want me to keep going for a little –"

"No, I'm good. Lets just drop it," she said hastily.

He nodded his head in agreement, and she was more than a little grateful for that. Because if he'd insisted on being nicer than he already was being, she wasn't sure that she could handle that. She already felt ashamed enough that she hadn't been able to be the kind of friend to him that he was clearly being to her now.

And she was about to tell him something along those lines, an apology on the tip of her tongue, when Wilson asked completely randomly, "You know what's good for a bruised larynx?"

Her mind, exhausted and overtaxed as it was, drew a complete blank, forcing her to shake her head.

"Ice cream," he told her. "There's a diner down the block that sells the best –"

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and she had to ask, "You're asking me to go get ice cream with you?"

"It's almost lunchtime. Why not?"

Feeling petulant for reasons she didn't quite understand, Cuddy wanted to reply, "Because I'm not a six-year-old girl who just had a good visit to the dentist."

But she kept her mouth shut, knowing that her currently foul mood had very little to Wilson himself.

Oh, she didn't like the overbearing feeling of owing him her life. Although the thought was distinctly House-like in its ungratefulness, the fact of the matter was she really didn't like feeling like the weak one in the relationship. She was so used to being an equal to Wilson, a _partner_ to him, that it was odd and unwanted to suddenly feel like he was responsible for her very existence.

But first and foremost, it was the reality that her existence had been threatened at _all_ that made her as childish and sullen as House had been all week. Which was another problem that weighed heavily on her, she thought, embracing the segue for all it was worth.

Although she didn't _enjoy_ the effect House had on her mood, there was no denying that he did. How could his sudden bursts of anger or sadness _not_ affect her? She _lived_ with him, _slept_ by his side. They weren't lovers by any stretch of the imagination, but she was involved in his life in a way that she hadn't been before on a day-to-day basis. And now that he was upset, now that he had free rein to make her miserable _outside_ of the job, it was hard not to have that rub off on her.

However, cocking her head to the side, Cuddy supposed she had to fight both of those influences. If she didn't _want_ to be affected by them, then the only choice she had was to force herself to remain untarnished by the insane psychopath who had tried to take her life and the potentially even crazier friend who unknowingly (and sometimes knowingly) tried to tarnish everything that _was_ good in her life.

"I don't know," she told Wilson. "I have a lot of work to do." And she wasn't sure that her already tight skirt could handle a hot fudge sundae (but she kept that part to herself).

Wilson shrugged the concern off. "Like I said, it's almost time to eat lunch, and it's a ten minute – fifteen tops – walk from here." Still she hesitated, and he finally confided, "Look, I know you're busy and trying to catch up on all of the things you've missed in the last two months. But…"

His voice trailed off, his gaze shifting from her curious eyes towards the lip of her desk. It was an obvious sign that he was about to confess something important to her and that he was torn about doing so.

Cuddy, understanding what was coming, sat up straight in her chair, ignoring the way the waistband of her skirt seemed to dig into her hips. "But?"

He smiled self-deprecatingly, almost as though he felt like what he was about to say was stupid or pointless; she doubted what he was going to say was either, but she kept that thought to herself and waited patiently. And finally Wilson told her, "Since Amber… _died_, I've been by myself, and I guess I thought it would be nice to do something with –"

"You've been pretty chummy with Cameron lately," Cuddy pointed out, mentally kicking herself for the way she sounded like a jealous girlfriend accusing her beau of cheating.

He nodded his head slightly. "Yeah, well, I think she's finally come to her senses and realized that trying to be my best friend right now isn't good for her relationship with Chase."

Although he clearly tried _not_ to sound upset by this, Cuddy could only think that he was. And when she thought about it, she understood why he would be. If she were Wilson, she imagined that he must have felt very important in his female friends' lives. Cameron chose her boyfriend over him; Cuddy had chosen House…

"I'm sorry," she said honestly, guilt making her frown.

"No," he replied instantly with a shake of the head. "No, she _should_ choose Chase over me. If I'd chosen Amber over _my_ destructive, selfish friend…" He tossed his hands in the air in defeat. "We probably wouldn't be here."

Cuddy was out of her chair more quickly than she thought her skirt would have ever allowed for. The tight fabric making her stride shorter than normal, it took her a few extra seconds to close the distance between her desk and Wilson. But when she did finally reach him, she enfolded him in the fiercest hug she had in her arsenal.

Her arms gripped him tightly, the pads of her fingers digging into his shoulder blades as if to remind him that she cared about him, as if to remind him that she _was_ there.

It was a reminder he eagerly accepted, his own arms wrapping around her waist.

He was shaking slightly, the tiny motions reverberating within her, as he pressed his face into the side of her neck. There was a very clear feeling of yearning emanating from him as though the emotion were simply part of the air she breathed.

"This isn't your fault," she tried to console, knowing all too well that the words would be ones that he probably never believed. "Wilson, there was _nothing_ you could have done to prevent this." She fumbled to say something that would make him feel better; since he remained silent, she could only assume that he hadn't been swayed by her reassurance anymore than she had by his.

But then again, thinking about her attack once more made her realize that she could potentially use that to her advantage.

No, she easily corrected; she _would_ use that to her advantage right now. Her voice almost hesitant, she added, "It's like… what happened to me. That man. Nobody could have predicted that. It just happened."

"But I was able to save you," he muttered, his words hot and humid against the injured expanse of her neck. "I couldn't – I didn't –"

"_Nobody_ could save her," Cuddy interrupted.

She tried to say that medical fact with as much grace and friendliness as possible. Nevertheless, however, it sounded cold, even to her own ears, no amount of kindness able to cover up the starkness of Amber's death.

"Maybe if we found her earlier," she conceded in a soft voice. "We could have pumped her stomach, administered physostigmine, but we both know that the medical likelihood of her recovering with pre-existing kidney damage is slim."

"I know that," he said in a way that approached hostile.

In her heart, she believed that he was being unintentionally angry about the whole situation – or at least she thought that he _wasn't_ being furious with her. Which was a big change from even a week ago, Cuddy knew; just a couple of days ago, actually, his fury would have been absolutely aimed at her.

But now it was apparent that he was more frustrated and angry at the situation – and _accepting_ of that fact. Because rather than attack her, he exhaled against her throat and pulled her closer to him with his embrace. "I just wish that things could be different," he confessed miserably. "I know the medicine. I've thought of that plenty of times; I _get_ it. I just wish she were still _here_."

The confession made her want to cry – _was_ making Wilson cry. Tears silently sliding down his cheeks and landing on her clavicle, it was impossible to miss the sudden change in his demeanor.

She frowned deeply, one of her hands instinctively sliding to the back of his head. Her fingers nestling in the thick brown strands, she tried to think of something worthwhile to say. That was easier said than done, though, because she had a multiple masters to serve at the moment; she needed him to understand that it was normal for him to feel this way, that it was all right for him to be upset.

But at the same time, she was also painfully aware that they _were_ still at work and that consoling him by cradling his head against her body was probably not the most professional thing in the world. And considering rumors about her sleeping with House were still floating around the hospital, Cuddy knew that the last thing she wanted right now was for this perfectly platonic moment to be injected into that.

God, she could already imagine the love triangle that would blossom if someone were to see her with Wilson like this. Dr. Cuddy two-timing on House, Cuddy fooling around with best friends, the Dean of Medicine interested in partaking in a threesome – she could practically hear what would be said about her now.

And on top of all of that was the fact that she still believed House and Wilson needed to talk. For both of their sakes, she needed the two men to get into the same room at _some_ point, so that they could, once and for all, deal with the effects of what had happened. And what were the chances of Wilson agreeing to do that if she couldn't ever get him to look past Amber's death?

Non-existent, she feared.

Yet _again_ she didn't want to – _could never_ – say to him as he sobbed quietly into her body, his weight leaning heavily on her, "Cheer up. You'll be banging some nurse in ortho soon enough."

Truly, even if she were to find a better way of telling him to look on the bright side, she had no doubt that he would find it to be incredibly and completely insensitive. And if he were to also then realize that she'd wanted him to be happier so that he could talk to House?

Wilson would never talk to her again.

Which meant that she didn't have a lot of room for error here; one wrong word, one ill-placed emotion, and all of the progress they'd managed to make in the last couple of days would be for naught. Actually, this was so important that with one wrong move, they'd be so much worse off than they'd been before; it would be worse than the way things had been when Amber had first _died_.

And that made Cuddy incredibly fearful.

She didn't want to be _scared_; the very notion that she could be afraid to talk to Wilson seemed so anathema to what she normally felt when it came to dealing with him. They'd never been the best of friends, but he'd always been so non-threatening that she'd felt as though she could tell him anything.

Of course, that fact was probably why she _hadn't_ confided all that much to him in the past. As much as she _could_ trust him, as sympathetic and wonderful as she knew he could be, she'd also always been wary of taking advantage of that. On a matter of principle, she refused to confide in him everything that was wrong with her life. Not only did it make her dependent on his support, it also made him the equivalent of a garbage receptacle, and she had no desire to do that.

But that had never made her feel _afraid_ to tell him anything.

So that she was now… well, it was hard to reconcile those feelings with the knowledge that she had to say something. And in the end, she was sure that she hadn't made heads or tails of what was going on before speaking as much as she'd just acted on instinct.

Turning her head slightly so that she could press her lips to his forehead, she said gently, "I know you miss her. She was a good person."

To her ears, the words fell short. Although she _did_ mean them, Cuddy couldn't deny that she'd never taken a liking to Amber. Cuddy had tried for Wilson's sake – for her _own_ sake as well, considering she had the unwanted but completely warranted job of refereeing between Amber and House. Given that Cuddy had had to field nearly daily conversations with one or the other, she'd always thought that it made sense to try and get to know – and _like_ – the other woman.

To be perfectly frank, though, when Cuddy looked back on those few months where she'd had nearly daily phone calls and dealings with her, Cuddy hadn't learned much, much less become _friendly_ with her.

Cuddy wasn't sure if that was due to lack of effort or because Amber really was that unlikable. But either way, it made Cuddy feel guilty to be comforting Wilson now by trying to sing her praises.

It just felt… fake.

However, Wilson didn't take issue with Cuddy over that. Instead he simply nodded his head and said in agreement, "She was."

There was a small amount of hesitation on his part, which she took to mean that he wanted to say something more. And perhaps she'd spent way too much time with House the last two months, because her first thought at the idea of eulogizing Amber some more was: hadn't that been the entire point of the _funeral_?

God, it was a horrible, insensitive thought, and she would never _ever_ allow for Wilson to know what she was thinking. But nonetheless, she felt herself silently urging him to get it out of his system, so she could pull away from him.

Yet he didn't say anything.

And after a few moments, Cuddy realized he wasn't going to without prompting him. "Wilson…"

"I'm sorry," he replied quickly, pulling away immediately. His tear-stained cheeks were flush with embarrassment, his eyes red from crying. His entire demeanor was that of a broken man, of a lonely person who was too ashamed to feel comfortable in accepting her sympathy… such as it was.

"You don't have to be." Her voice was calm, but underneath that, she felt her heart break for him. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling."

He shook his head and reached for a tissue from the box lying on her desk. "I didn't come here to talk about Amber, and I know that you probably don't want to hear about her and –"

"It's fine," she interrupted, knowing that it was sort of a lie. But as long as he didn't really know that…

Again, he shook his head, using the Kleenex to wipe his face. "No, it's not. You've been through this whole… thing, and I came here to make sure _you_ were okay – not to garner your _pity._"

There was so much _disgust_ in his tone it was almost breathtaking. It was an emotion she'd gotten used to hearing in his voice lately, much to her dismay. But for the most part, it had been directed towards _her_ or to _House_. And although she didn't like _that_ either, at least it was understandable… maybe even deserved in a way.

All of that hatred and anger directed at himself though?

She hated it and almost wished that it had been aimed at her, if only to avoid the sadness making her already sore throat feel even thicker with emotion.

Taking a few steps towards him, Cuddy placed a warm hand on his forearm. "Don't. You _should_ be talking about her. It means you're healing… and frankly," she began to confess slowly. "I'd rather talk about Amber than about what just happened to me."

But her wishes definitely didn't sit well with him. "No, I came here to see how you were doing and to take you out –"

Smiling she supplied, "To go get ice cream?"

"It's good for your throat," he explained in a voice that had inklings of defensiveness.

And knowing that he really was just trying to be nice, Cuddy knew she couldn't refuse the offer. He didn't have to be concerned with her well being; even though they were trying to repair their friendship, he easily could have decided to be as inactive in her… _recovery_ as she had been up to this point in his.

Besides, at that moment, she remembered that this whole thing had gotten started, because he'd said that he was lonely.

Recalling that was the last straw.

Tossing her hands in the air, she said, "Then lets get ice cream."

Wilson threw his used tissue in the trashcan and smiled. "You sure? You're not too busy?"

Her response was an honest one. As her head bobbed a little, she admitted, "Well, I was hoping to replace security before the end of the day."

"Then I'll let you do that," Wilson said quickly, almost as though he were afraid of possibly interrupting her plans. Which was odd, because _surely_ he'd known that he would have been imposing before even leaving his office.

But she let that slide, so she could tell him, "No, don't worry about that." Rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand, she explained, "Honestly I think I could use a break. Legal thinks they're going to try and fight the dismissal, so I've been cataloging every incident I can remember where they screwed up."

"That's… going to be a long list," he conceded with a cock of the head. "So then maybe I should _really_ leave you to get your work done. You wouldn't want to have to work late and keep House waiting."

His voice was even, but she was sure that there was an insult in his words somewhere. Gazing at him carefully, Cuddy studied his eyes to see what emotion was behind them. But the dark brown irises gave away nothing, and she had to respond blindly.

Clearing her throat, she said, "House is a big boy; he can be without me for a few hours –"

"Then why'd you take time off for nearly two months to be with him?"

Tension flooded into the room, expanding rapidly within the sudden silence. As easy as their closeness had almost seemed, his question explosively reminded her that they were not past any of this yet.

Sighing, she clarified tersely, "I meant that he can handle me being away _now_. Two months ago, he definitely could _not_, and I don't regret –"

"Okay," he interrupted in a similar manner that wasn't outright angry but on the verge of it.

And that was truly the last thing she wanted. As furious as they both probably had a reason to be, Cuddy only wanted to move beyond this really uncomfortable part of their lives as quickly as possible. She certainly didn't want to fight, didn't want to undo all of the progress they'd made.

Her voice breezy, she said, "I don't want to fight with you… but I think you _were_ right about the ice cream; that _does_ sound like a good idea. I'm thinking chocolate, but - "

"It's raining," he replied miserably.

Of course, it had also been raining when he'd first entered her office; it had been storming all _week_, much to House's dismay and discomfort. So the thing about Wilson's words was that he would have _absolutely_ known about the weather when he'd decided to ask her out to ice cream.

The only difference between then and now, Cuddy understood, was that before he'd been concerned with and _not_ angry at her. And with one small comment about House, she'd ruined all of his good will towards her.

She hated herself for that, for knowing what would make Wilson miserable and for bringing it up anyway.

But she supposed now was not the time for recriminations. He was looking at her for some sort of response, and she knew that if she took the time to mentally berate herself, he would take that as her agreeing that the rain should stop them.

"We should go anyway," she insisted. "We can _drive_ if you're worried about getting wet or me getting my work done on time." He wrung his hands together, perhaps feeling as though he didn't have a good excuse anymore to get out of it. And unless he actually said that he hated her, there _was_ no excuse she would accept.

Moving away from him, she went around her desk to open the drawer she kept her purse and briefcase in. "C'mon," she told him gently. "They have that cucumber ice cream this time of year that I know you're so fond of…"

God, she sounded so much like a mother trying to get her toddler to do something he didn't want to do. The subtle bribery didn't really fit in with that image, but it was close enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and surprised that the child in this situation _wasn't_ House, anyway.

And maybe it was because of House that she could be such a good maternal figure to the over forty, male population. But whatever the reason, she could tell that Wilson was seriously considering her offer.

He had that far off look in his eyes as though he were weighing the pros and cons in his head. Furthering that impression, he said almost wistfully, "They also have the peach this month, which is really good…"

"Then lets go," she replied decisively. "I can write off the expenses as a business lunch."

"All right."

There was something hesitant about his demeanor that made her frown. He might have been agreeing with her, but he clearly was no longer doing this to spend time with her. That her company was somehow secondary to a scoop of ice cream was… sad, and it made her feel that way.

But she didn't press the matter, as she buttoned up her coat. At this point, she was probably just lucky to have him agreeing to come for any reason. And though this had been _his_ idea, one she'd initially resisted, their conversation made her feel that this really was an important to thing to do. For the sake of her already guilt-ridden heart, it seemed imperative that they eat ice cream together for lunch.

As they exited her office, Wilson trailing behind her like a bored, uninterested dog following its master, she asked him, "Should we drive or walk?"

He contemplated the question for a few minutes before answering, "Walk. If you don't mind the rain."

Truth be told, Cuddy didn't _really_ want to venture out into the rain. The effect it would have on her hair alone was reason enough to drive. But she felt almost desperate to prove to him that she could respect his wishes and give him what he wanted without constantly second guessing him. So she simply reached into her bag, which was big enough to hold an umbrella and pulled it out. "Lets go," she said with a tight-lipped smile on her face.

Motioning for her to step through the sliding glass doors first, he said chivalrously, "After you, Mary Poppins."

She did what he told her to, giving him an unimpressed look as she obeyed. "You know, I _was _going to offer to share my umbrella with you," she told him in a teasing voice.

"And now?"

She smirked. "Have fun getting wet."

"Meanie," he retorted in a mockingly childish tone that had her snorting in the least ladylike of ways.

Despite the tease, though, when they stepped out into the rain, she held the Burberry umbrella over his head. It wasn't entirely big enough for two people to stand under, droplets of rain spilling onto her right shoulder and presumably onto his left.

But Cuddy couldn't help but feel that he'd made the right call nonetheless by saying that they should walk. The streets around the hospital were busy, but once they'd gotten past all of that, Princeton was essentially deserted. And there was a sweet peacefulness in all of it that she hadn't experienced in a very long time; she could only assume that Wilson felt the same way.

It explained their amicable silence anyway.

In fact, they didn't even speak again until after they'd gotten their ice cream (his scoops of brilliantly colored cucumber and peach, hers boring but absolutely perfect for her period chocolate with peanut butter cups on top). And even then it took a few minutes after they were seated in a cushy booth to really start talking again.

She was busy chewing on a Reese's cup when Wilson asked almost out of nowhere, "How _is_ House doing?"

Her eyes, which had been focused on her food, darted upward to meet his questioning gaze. It was the last thing she expected him to ask her about, and honestly it made her a little suspicious that he had. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

He _was_ surprisingly enough. "You said that you were trusting him to be alone these days, and I'm curious."

Her brow furrowing in confusion, Cuddy parroted, "You're curious?" She played with the ice cream in her dish. "About _House_? Really." The last word wasn't even a question; there was just too much doubt in it to end the comment with a question mark, he thought.

And Wilson understood why completely. He'd spent so much time trying to pretend that he didn't give a crap about House, _insisting_ that he didn't care about House, that it seemed odd for him to be asking about him now. But for his part, Wilson felt that it was completely normal, and taking a bite of his ice cream, he explained, "You've been leaving a trail of bread crumbs for me for the last eight weeks. So, dear Gretel… spill."

She eyed him with displeasure. "I will if you stop comparing me to fictional characters." He smirked and nodded his head in agreement. "All right," she said quietly, dropping her spoon into her dish.

Picking up her napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth gingerly. There was no doubt in Wilson's mind that it was a diversion for her, that it was something to do while she figured out what she wanted to say. And considering just how much she had been pressing for this conversation, he couldn't stop himself from saying bitterly, "I'm surprised you don't have everything you wish to tell me scripted in your mind."

She gave him a dark look that was heated enough to make him swallow awkwardly.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said in a cool voice. "Although I've wanted to have this conversation with you for a while now, I'm not exactly sure what it is that you're willing to hear me tell you."

This time he was the one to drop his spoon into his dish. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means every time I try to tell you something about House, you jump down my throat. And I don't want to be _yelled_ at."

Wilson didn't want to admit that she was right, but in his heart, he knew that she was. Because as curious as he knew he was, part of him was ashamed of and hateful towards that interest. And though he never planned on fighting with her the second she brought House up, somehow Wilson always seemed to do just that.

But he thought that it was completely understandable for him to be angry. Really, if she expected anything different, then _she_ was being ridiculous and idealistic to the point of insanity.

However, rather than start a fight (and prove her point) by telling her that, Wilson simply held his hands in the air innocently. "I'll be good."

She looked at him doubtfully but didn't say that she _didn't_ believe him, which he supposed was a start. "All right," she capitulated in soft tones. Her mood brightening a little, Cuddy told him, "Well, I'm not sure what you're hoping to hear. He's a little better physically. Not one hundred per cent – _nowhere_ near that, Wilson. But… he's okay… I guess."

Wilson blinked. "You've just told me absolutely nothing. You do realize that, right?"

Taking a deep breath, she tried again. "Okay… his ability to process information is better than it was. I told you that the man who attacked me probably had diabetic ketoacidosis and –"

"I remember," Wilson said with a nod of the head. "House diagnosed him?" She didn't say anything in response, and he took that as a yes. "How is that possible? He didn't even see –"

"House could smell the fruitiness on _me_. And since I didn't have any of the symptoms, he deduced that –"

"That's actually smart," he conceded. As much as he didn't want to sing any of House's praises, there was no denying that the man was smart. That was about as logical as denying that the sun was hot or that rain was wet.

Cuddy, of course, smiled at Wilson as though he'd said that all was forgiven. "It _was_ smart," she agreed.

"So I guess he'll be back to work sometime soon," Wilson concluded, knowing how this whole incident would inevitably end.

He'd spent a lot of time trying to deny and avoid what would happen in the future. But now that that future was practically on top of him, there was no denying that, at some point, House would come back to the hospital.

Wilson didn't really _like_ that idea; the longer House stayed away, the longer Wilson could pretend that the other man didn't exist. The longer he could deal with his grief without having to really think about anything else.

Maybe that was selfish – to want House to stay sick, so that Wilson didn't have to contemplate the other side of this entire accident. But that _was_ how he felt, even if some part of him realized that it was foolish to feel that way.

Already there was no escaping the presence of House in his life. Even though he'd tried, Wilson knew that there had been many moments _already _where he'd been reminded that there was another person involved in this mess. When Cuddy brought it up, when he sat in House's office, when House's team looked at him as though he were incapable of doing the job – they were all painful reminders of House's very existence.

And Wilson couldn't help but feel that things would be about a million times more painful when House actually came _back_ to work.

So it was relief – pure and total _relief_ – when Cuddy shook her head slowly. "His ability to solve cases is intact; there's no denying that. But…"

Deep down inside, he knew that he shouldn't have pressed her for more information. He _knew_ that he shouldn't have prompted her by asking, "But what?" Yet he did do exactly that, somehow feeling as though it was his _duty_ to ask.

As unconcerned for _House_ as Wilson was, he _was_ worried about Cuddy; ever since she'd asked him to forgive her, to be her friend once more, he'd found it hard to deny her any of it. Although there'd been moments of anger and resentment toward her, he was, for the most part, willing to give her what she wanted. Maybe even what she _needed_ after being attacked like she had, he realized.

So much for maintaining a hard line with Cuddy and her unwillingness to choose him over House, he thought to himself miserably…

_Shamefully_.

Granted, there was _no_ going back now; even if he wanted to push her away (he didn't), he couldn't at this point. The more time he spent with her, the more Wilson was beginning to notice how difficult Amber's death had been on Cuddy. Even without her attacker, she was exhausted – in _every _sense of the word. Mentally, physically, she looked as though she could and _would_ break down at any moment.

And as she began to explain herself, Wilson couldn't help but worry that this might be the breaking point for her. Her voice tight with emotion, her pitch slightly higher than it had been post-strangulation, she said, "There have been a _few_… _problems_ that would bar him from returning to work any time soon."

But that didn't exactly explain anything. Nearly annoyed, he asked, motioning for her to spill, "Such as?"

"He suffers from tinnitus," Cuddy admitted in a tone that was more mournful than he felt was warranted. As much as Wilson could believe that such a condition could be irritating, he _couldn't_ get behind the idea that it was some serious condition that would prevent House from coming back to work. "It's _serious_," she practically snarled as though she could sense Wilson's ambivalence.

"Of course it is," he replied easily, not believing a single word he'd uttered.

She rolled her eyes and angrily took a bite of her ice cream. As she chewed a chunk of peanut butter cup, she practically glared at him – as though a death stare would make him feel any differently.

When it didn't, Cuddy heatedly told him, "It bothers him. A _lot_. It makes him irritable – more so than he normally is," she conceded quickly. "He can't sleep at night. Noise drives him to distraction, and I'm honestly surprised that he had enough focus to even realize that I smelled differently when I came home."

"But that's it?"

Somehow Wilson was expecting more than to hear about how House's ears were bothering him. After all the enticing chatter about how House was miserable, how House was _suffering_, it was nothing short of a letdown to hear about _this_.

"_No_. That's not 'it,'" she said, her lips curled into a sneer. She clearly had no love for his language. "But if you're so concerned or _doubtful_ about his current condition, why don't you go see House?"

Wilson had to smile at the way she easily slid that insane idea in there. He didn't know if that had been her plan all along – to get him to ask about House, so she could say that – or if the idea had popped into her head just now. But either way, he had to admire her deviousness. Even though he'd been scrambling to hate that quality in her for the last eight weeks, it was hard to do that now.

Maybe it was the result of having seen her almost be murdered only two days ago.

Maybe it was the fact that being angry with her was _such_ a miserable way to expend energy.

Maybe he'd just remembered how charismatic she could be when she set her mind to excusing her (and House's) bad behavior.

He didn't really know, but for whatever reason, he found himself handling her suggestion with more grace than he'd thought possible. "Yeah, and after that, I'll go rob a bank with this spoon," he replied sarcastically, holding up the white plastic utensil to emphasize the point.

"Your spoon would get you nowhere. But if you're curious about House, then the best thing to do is to go see him." Wielding her own spoon as a weapon, she warned him, "I'm stealing some of your peach."

Wilson pushed his bowl towards her. "You should try the cucumber," he suggested amicably. "It's refreshing, a good counterbalance to your chocolate and peanut butter."

"It's also a vegetable," she replied doubtfully.

He smiled as she dipped her spoon only into the ice cream that had a slight orange tinge. "It's good… really."

"I'll take your word for it."

"And I'll take yours about House and how he's doing."

Forcing himself to _not_ smirk at his own brilliance, Wilson nevertheless gave himself a mental pat on the back; she wasn't the only one who could segue into topics they were both better off ignoring.

Obviously though, Cuddy wasn't interested in the awesomeness of his reply. As though to prove him wrong with her actions, she immediately scooped up some of the greenish dessert and shoveled it begrudgingly into her mouth. "There. I tried it."

"And?"

She bobbed her head a little, clearly hesitating to concede that he'd been right about the flavor. But eventually she did do that, saying, "Fine. You're right. It's good… now, will you talk to House?"

He scoffed. "Cuddy, you can be so brave as to try the noodle kugel flavor if you want, but no amount of ice cream tasting is going to make me talk to the man who killed my girlfriend to see how his _boo boos_ are doing." Childishly, he pulled his bowl back (and even more childishly reached over with his spoon to nab the last bit of Reese's cup out of her dish).

"I don't want to fight," Cuddy said out of obligation.

At least, that was the reason he assumed she said it; he certainly couldn't believe that she really meant those words anyway.

Clearly _he_ wouldn't have meant them, so he simply told her, "If that's true, then drop it."

But she refused.

"I wish I could," she replied in a voice that sounded earnest. "I know you don't want to believe me when I say that, but I _really_ do wish I could drop the matter and let you two go on hating each other."

"Then do it."

It was a challenge he silently prayed that she would accept.

Instead she shook her head and frowned. "Don't you understand why I can't do that?"

"Don't _you_ understand why I _need_ you to?" He lobbed the question at her with as much venom as he could throw her way these days without feeling horribly guilty about it.

Her answer, however, was one he wasn't expecting. "No, I don't know why you want me to do that," she admitted.

"Well, I can explain," he said nastily.

"You're furious with him. I get it. You don't want to be near him, because it's painful. I get that too." Once more Cuddy sounded honest, and he didn't doubt that she at least _thought_ she understood his reasons. "What I don't get is why avoiding him – changing your life _completely_ – is a better option than spending time with him… better than telling him how you feel."

From an outsider's perspective, Wilson could see the logic in her point.

If you didn't know how he felt, then he supposed it made sense to say that there was nothing to be lost in dealing with House head on. At worst, there'd be moments of anger filled with nasty words that Wilson wouldn't be able or willing to take back. And in the end, all of that would hurt _House_ more than it would hurt Wilson himself, so he supposed there was something to be said for meeting with the other man.

_If_ you didn't know how Wilson felt.

Which clearly Cuddy didn't.

"If I go and see him," he explained in a halting, barely controlled voice. "Then I'm validating his existence. I'm giving him all of the attention that he's _always_ been so desperate to have. And even if I'm standing in front of him, shouting at him, blaming him for everything bad that's happened, he won't see it as a bad thing. He'll just be happy that I'm talking to him."

Cuddy didn't say anything at first in reaction. Her lips only opening so she could eat the last remnants of her ice cream, she remained silent for several moments.

To be perfectly honest, Wilson relished the quiet; it meant that she had no idea how to respond, had no idea how to deny what they both believed to be the truth.

And he guessed that it was _because_ she knew she couldn't deny the truth that she embraced it in her response. "Look," she said in a serious voice, dropping her spoon into her empty dish. "I would _really_ like you to go see House this evening."

He laughed humorlessly, almost – not quite but _almost_ – amused at her optimism.

She agreed that it was rather stupid. "I know, I know…"

"Well, like I said, going to see him would only encourage him."

"Wilson, I can't deny that a lot of this is for him." Her eyes filling with sadness, she explained, "I've been getting the distinct impression that his physical wellbeing is suffering – _a lot_ – from your unwillingness to talk to him. And –"

"That's not my problem." It really _wasn't_, and Wilson took great affront to anyone believing that it was.

Rolling her eyes, she quoted, "'First do no harm'? Does that ring a bell?"

"He's not my patient, and he's certainly not my friend, and I don't have to do anything to make him feel better." His body tensed instinctively as though to lend his words a certain sense of finality. "I don't owe him that – or _anything._"

Wilson scowled at the immaturity of his comments. Although the subject matter was different, more serious, the way he was talking reminded him of a child who couldn't accept that two wrongs didn't make a right. So much so that he waited irritably for Cuddy to point that out.

She didn't do that though.

Instead, she said, "Then do it for yourself. Go see him so you can get closure on –"

"How do _I_ get closure from seeing _him_? How does that make things better for _me_?"

Again, he realized that it sounded so selfish and immature to ask questions like that. But at _some_ point, it had to be okay to look out for number one, right? After everything he'd been through, after losing the love of his life, it was _okay_ to be selfish…

Right?

He didn't have an answer to the question before Cuddy spoke up. "Well… for starters, you get to say all of the things you've been thinking about saying to him."

He narrowed his eyes on her. "I haven't –"

"Please," she interrupted doubtfully. "You haven't been angry with me just because you're mad at _me_."

"Then enlighten me. _Why_ have I been angry with you?"

"Because of misplaced anger?" Her suggestion was a tart one, was one that he had to roll his eyes at.

"I don't think my anger was misplaced anywhere." And before she could respond, he asked her in a cold voice, "Are you done?" He gestured towards the empty dishes of ice cream. "Because I have work to do."

Cuddy nodded her head and dutifully stacked up both of their Styrofoam dishes. "I'm not saying that you haven't been angry with me because of the decisions I've made. I _know_ that there are plenty of things I've done that are more than worthy of you hating me for the rest of my life," she said sadly, standing up in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner.

The booth's leather groaned under the shifting of weight as her knees pressed awkwardly into the bench. She looked like a woman desperate to get away from him, and he couldn't even begin to pretend not to understand why; even though he'd agreed to drop the matter and to try and be her friend, he'd just brought up everything that had kept them apart for the last two months.

And he understood why she was eager to put distance between them – just as he understood that it was probably in his best interest to apologize. In the very least, he felt that he should say something to make her feel better, unless he _wanted_ to deal with his boss and friend leave the ice cream shop with tears in her eyes.

But he didn't get a chance to. Because as he stood up, she told him, "But you can't tell me that some of that anger _isn't_ about House… that it's _not_ about you being so furious at him that your anger is bubbling over into the other areas of your life. Because I think we both know that it is."

"Do we?" He was more curious at this point than anything else; although he couldn't deny that he'd spent the last eight weeks feeling as though he had something to prove, he hadn't really thought about how his anger had affected any of it. And he wondered just how obvious it seemed to her that it had.

She hesitated as she grabbed her purse and umbrella. "I don't want to fight," she told him quietly, her voice sounding more hoarse than it had even only moments ago. "I just think that if you were to tell him everything you've been feeling, you would feel so much better."

He silently put his coat back on, and she must have taken that as a sign to keep talking, because she added sweetly, "I won't deny that getting you two in the same room would help him as well…. I just _also_ happen to believe that you would be so much happier if you _talked_ to him."

And Wilson wondered if that were true.

Considering Cuddy's meticulous nature, he could only believe that she'd been thinking about having this conversation for a while. Even if the words weren't rehearsed, he felt that she would have _had_ to have been thinking about how to ask him to see House before actually coming out and suggesting it. So that meant she would have had to have come up with some logic behind her last statement. She would have had to see _some_ reason for saying that he'd be happier after talking to House.

Or in the very least, if she were lying about that part, she'd have to have a twisted logic to support the lie. She wouldn't have come into this without the tools to back herself up.

And knowing that, Wilson decided to press her for more information.

Of course, he didn't want to come off as though he were earnestly asking why she was thinking that, so he put it more gruffly, asking her, "And what makes you think _that's_ going to happen?" As they walked towards the exit, she gave him a put upon look – as though _he_ were the one pushing the matter. "Hey, you're the one who's saying I'm going to benefit in some way. I think it's understandable – reasonable even – for me to ask why you think that."

And maybe he'd been around House too long, but at that moment, Wilson could feel a sarcastic remark bubble within him. Before he could even stop himself, the words pushed their way out. Breezily he added, "_Or_ to at least get the number of your dealer."

The comment was one he was sure would earn him a walk back in the rain. She was trying to be nice about all of this, and he was kind of (totally) being a dick about the whole thing. And if the situation was reversed, he would absolutely let her get soaking wet before he even considered sharing his umbrella with her.

But she was clearly the more mature one, handing the plaid umbrella to him to hold. His shock over the gesture must have registered on his face, because she smirked and told him, "I won't deny that you _deserve _to get wet, but knowing our luck, you'd catch pneumonia and die, and I'd rather not have _that_ on my conscience was well."

Her voice was filled with teasing, but somehow the words felt hollow to him. Maybe he was overreacting to the fight they were having, but he couldn't help but feel like there was a morsel of truth behind what she'd just said. And that made him incredibly uneasy, because the last thing he wanted after all of this time was to be a burden on someone else in the same way House had been to him.

"I'm kidding," Cuddy said quickly, curling her arms around one of his own. Her fingertips burying themselves into the crook of his below, she explained, "The way I see it telling House how you feel can only help you. You're so angry at him that I can't – I _don't_ – believe that you have nothing to say to him." As they started to walk together, she suggested, "So why not tell him how you feel? In the very least you get all of what you've been thinking off your chest, and House will be forced to accept that one way or the other."

Wilson scoffed. "Yeah, I don't see that happening. House listening to what I have to say and just… _taking it_? That's _never_ going to happen."

Cuddy seemed to be willing to concede that point with a slight nod of the head; she refused to actually say that he was right, but her body language certainly made it seem like she was rethinking her argument. And because of that, it wasn't all that surprising when she took a different approach. "It beats waiting for him to come back to work and dealing with him then."

"Yes," Wilson said sarcastically, waving his free hand in the air. "_Prolong_ the misery. That sounds like a great idea."

She smiled at the remark. "Okay. Point taken. But maybe the flip side of that is that talking to him now means you don't have _put off_ the misery either."

They stopped at a crosswalk, his gaze firmly on the orange "Do not walk" sign across the street. And he had to point out, "You do realize that the one thing both courses of action have in common is that there _will_ be misery for _me_ at some point."

He could feel her gaze shift to his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the sadness seeping into her features. She was fast in recovering control of her emotions, of course; somehow Wilson had begun to realize that the rule of thumb in this circle of friends and non-friends was that you never stayed emotional for too long. But the brief lapse of control had been more than enough for him to know that this was painful for her as well.

Wilson figured then that he should apologize. He didn't want to exactly, but his intention had never been to make Cuddy upset, which he was clearly doing.

However, he didn't get a chance to say anything; she changed her approach and asked him, "Do you know why this is so hard for us?"

His forehead wrinkled in confusion. He didn't exactly know what she was talking about. "Why _what_ is hard? Walking across the street?"

"No," she replied loudly and impatiently. "I mean a _friendship_ – a real friendship – between us."

They'd just managed to finish the crosswalk's distance when she uttered those words. And Wilson was glad for her good timing, because the things she was saying stopped him immediately. Cuddy took a few steps away from him ignorantly, but he couldn't do the same.

Her fingertips nearly sliding off of his elbow, she finally stopped walking and turned to look at him. "Wilson?" Her voice was filled with concern.

His own grasp on the umbrella wasn't very strong; all it would take was a gust of wind to make him drop it. But he wasn't really being mindful of that at the moment, because all he could think about was the fact that she'd just destroyed every illusion he'd had about the nature of their relationship.

And that made him angry.

_Furious. _

Explosively he demanded to know, "We're _not _friends?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's not what I said."

"Sure, it is," he snapped.

"_No_. What I asked you was if you understood why it's so _hard_ for us to have a real friendship. Do you?" She angrily snatched the umbrella away from him. But although she was clearly annoyed, she had the decency to still hold the contraption over his head as well.

Unfortunately for him, his mind wasn't quite as good at working while angry. He hadn't considered himself to be a person who couldn't put his feelings to the side, but this was making him rethink that. Because at the moment, his mind was drawing a blank; he had _no_ idea what she was trying to get at, and he had to fake it. "Well, I'm _guessing_ your vague questions and my instinctively angry answers are part of it."

"That doesn't help, but I wasn't thinking of that actually." Her fingers adjusted themselves around the stem of the umbrella.

"Then –"

"We've known each other for years," she interrupted with a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "We see each other nearly every day of our lives. I was at your last wedding. We have lunch – and _ice cream_ – together. I was the one who decided when you got to see Amber and House when you were dating her."

He was tempted to smile at the memories her words were invoking. Not just the more recent, more painful ones featuring Amber – but the ones that were older, the ones that made Wilson think that a lot of time had passed since he'd first met Cuddy. He couldn't even remember off the top of his head how long it had been. But so much had changed since then.

She'd had a few boyfriends along the way before seemingly settling for a life alone. He'd been divorced and married and divorced _again_ in that time, and that in and of itself made it seem like centuries had run their course.

"But," Cuddy continued, interrupting his thoughts. "I think we can both agree that a lot if not _most_ of that time has been spent… not really being close to one another." She stumbled over the words, awkwardly grasping at whatever language seemed to fit her purpose. Wilson liked that fact, because it meant that she hadn't pre-planned this moment with him. "We plot against House more than anything else, talk about him as though the only reason you and I have anything in common is his _insanity_."

And at that moment, Wilson couldn't help but think that it was an odd thing to bring up now. Given that she'd just been trying to force him to talk to House, it seemed weird to point out that he was the very reason Wilson wasn't best friends with her. "And knowing that, you _still_ think I should talk to House?"

She nodded her head slowly, hesitantly. "What I think is this: all this time, we haven't done a lot for one another. I mean… I didn't make a big deal about killing your patient the other day. I defended you, yes, but it was my _job_. And you saved my life, because you're _not_ a psychopath."

She was tossing both of those events out there carelessly, but Wilson thankfully didn't get the impression that they were unimportant matters to her. If anything, for him, it cemented in his mind that those moments had affected her more than she'd previously let on.

"Well, there is that," he said for no reason other than to let her know that he was on the same page as she was.

She gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We've had a few moments with one another, but we're not…." She shook her head before reaching up with her free hand to rub her neck. "We don't make a habit of it. We don't hang out. We don't talk to one another when things are bothering us – unless it involves House, and even then, I think you'll agree that the conversation is usually _about_ House and what we can do to make _him_ change."

He nodded his head in agreement but added, "You're right… but I still don't see why this means I should talk to House."

"Wilson, I want to be your friend – a really _good_ friend to you – and I can only believe that, because you suggested we go get ice cream in the middle of the work day, you feel the same way."

Cuddy stopped talking, which clearly meant that she wanted him to say the words, so he did. "Yes. That's what I want too. Of course it is."

"Then I think we need to start doing things for one another, for the sake of our friendship," she suggested in a polite voice.

But Wilson could read between the lines. "And somehow that means I should talk to House."

Holding the umbrella over both of their heads, she grabbed his hand. He wasn't prepared for the contact, so it was easy for her to tug him into a leisurely walk. As they started to move once more, Cuddy conceded, "Yes… but I'd like you to consider this from my point of view for a minute."

Wilson was taken aback, and he couldn't keep the accusation out of his tones when he asked, "Because you've been so eager to consider this from _mine_?"

Immediately she rolled her eyes. "The woman you love is dead, and the person who helped set all of those unlikely events into motion was your best friend and is someone you no longer want to talk to. I _get_ it."

"You make it sound so _easy_," he replied peevishly, his cheeks turning pink. "You make it sound like there's no actual emotion behind any of this… like it's just the _easiest_ thing in the world for me to –"

"That's not what I'm saying," she interrupted in an equally annoyed tone. "I understand that this has been hard for you in ways I can't even imagine. And I'm not trying to minimize the way you're feeling. Really, I'm not."

To be perfectly honest, though, that was exactly what it felt like to Wilson. It _felt_ like she was standing there, believing that being angry with House was the only way this could have gone – like it hadn't even been a _choice_. And Wilson didn't even know why that seemed like such an insult, really, but it did.

Perhaps it made him feel that his anger wasn't entirely _real_ if it was something he'd been hardwired to do; maybe it made him feel as though he was just going through the motions as opposed to consciously making a decision about his life.

He didn't really know why, but whatever the reason, he was annoyed by her words.

And yet that wasn't enough to stop her from talking. Only her quietly imploring tone gave away the fact that she knew he was irritated. "All I'm asking you to do is consider this from my perspective."

It didn't seem like too much of a request, but at the same time, his head was beginning to ache. He'd skipped his lunchtime coffee in order to have this ice cream date with her, and it was beginning to affect him. Which meant that he was already too frustrated and fed up to do what she requested. And instead of thinking for himself, he confessed irritably, "I don't know what you want me to see."

She smiled almost pitiably. "Surely by now you realize that, during these last two months, I've been in the middle between you and House." He nodded his head once in agreement but didn't say anything. "And I don't know if you've noticed this or if you've intuitively figured this out, but to be completely frank, it's not exactly a position I like being in."

Wilson frowned a little at her. "But you _chose_ –"

"No, I didn't," she said sadly. "House had his seizure, and I sat by his bedside, because I was afraid of what…"

Her voice gave out, leaving her unable to finish the thought. An outsider might have thought that that was the result of her attack; the beating her larynx had taken surely could have accounted for the sudden inability to speak.

But Wilson knew better.

He wasn't even getting a full look at her face, as they were walking side by side. The small glance he was getting, however, let him know that her problem had nothing to do with the physical and _everything_ to do with the emotional battering she'd been through.

And he was about to comfort her as best as he could, but he didn't get the chance; she cleared her throat and started talking once more. "He was hurt, and I was being a friend, and Amber died, and… there I was between you both."

Her words were probably intended to make him feel guilty, and in that respect, there was no denying that she'd succeeded. Wilson didn't want to feel that way, but of its own volition, the guilt began to course through his system as effectively as the sucrose from his ice cream was.

Nevertheless, guilty or not, he was hardly willing to let _her_ know that he was feeling that way. So instead of apologizing, he replied, "Well, that might be true, but you don't have to _stay_ there. Don't be in the middle if you don't want to be," he ordered her in a dismissive voice.

"As long as you two refuse to talk to one another while still desperately needing to hear what's going on with the other –"

"_You're_ the one who keeps bringing House up," he accused.

"Let me finish my thought," she snapped irritably in a way that _dared_ him to interrupt once more. "_He_ is the one who wants to hear more about you. But you're just as bad with your inability to deal with anyone or anything involved with him. And as long as you act like anything remotely House-like will give you a hot case of _herpes_, I'm going to unfortunately stay exactly where I am."

He didn't want to admit that she was right.

_God_, he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of having to say, even in the smallest way, that he had been wrong. Nor did he want to admit – to himself or anyone else – that he had had a small part in the pain she'd clearly been feeling for the last two months.

It was easier to function when he could pretend that his actions had no consequences and that he'd been right to do whatever it was that he'd been doing; he was _happier_ living in his little bubble of absolution that ran on the motto: _everything_ bad started and ended with _House_.

But what she was saying…

He didn't want to admit that she was right, but there was obviously _no_ denying that he'd been wrong.

And there was no avoiding it now either.

Sighing, he muttered, sounding like a child being forced to apologize, "I'm sorry."

She smiled kindly at him; hell, she practically _grinned_, although it was sort of hard to tell. The second her lips began to turn upward, she pressed her face into his bicep, her smile swallowed up by the fabric of his clothes and blocked by a dark skein of her hair. "It's nice to hear you say that," she admitted almost joyfully.

"But let me guess: you'd still like me to talk to House," Wilson said quietly, refusing to let himself enjoy the peaceful moment. As much as he wanted to, he knew that Cuddy was nothing if not persistent… _and_ cunning to the point of deviousness. Which meant that there was no way in hell he was going to be getting back to his office without either agreeing to see House _or_ starting an even uglier fight.

Her head moving to his shoulder, she admitted, "I would like that… yes."

"And if I say no?"

They stopped at another crosswalk, and Cuddy let her head remain where it was, eliciting (much to Wilson's chagrin) approving smiles from some of the other people on the street.

He supposed they looked like a couple sharing a tender moment with one another. But the fact of the matter was things probably couldn't have been further from the truth; they weren't a couple by any stretch of the imagination. And even if the previous seconds had been filled with friendship and happiness, the ones they currently were experiencing were more bittersweet for him than anything else. Because they might not have been lovers, but the feelings this walk was invoking were hard for him to handle.

At this point, it had nothing to do with Cuddy herself but _everything_ to do with Amber.

Now, obviously, Amber hadn't been much of a… _supporter_ of public displays of affection. As affectionate as she could be, she probably would have never taken a walk with him like this and done the things that Cuddy was doing right now.

But nevertheless, the feeling of camaraderie, of _closeness_ made him think of his girlfriend… made him think of his _dead_ girlfriend, he miserably corrected.

And that made him think that, although anyone else on the streets might smile, he could only feel the urge to push Cuddy away.

He didn't, of course.

The temptation was there, but he wasn't going to break the tentative détente that they'd reached. Especially when she answered his question by saying, "I'm not going to do anything if you don't talk to House…. What _could_ I do? Threaten you with clinic duty? Drug you and kidnap you? Hold you hostage until you agree to talk to him?"

The sadness he'd felt so keenly only seconds earlier seemed to evaporate immediately at the images she was putting in his mind, which made him think that maybe working for a friendship with her was the best thing to do. If it was going to make him less miserable in the end and _keep_ him that way, then maybe it was for _his_ benefit to do what she wanted.

But the idea of that was still almost a _maybe _in his mind, and he wasn't going to commit to talking to House before that maybe turned into something a little more definite. So Wilson simply joked, "Of course not. You don't have the handcuffs for that."

Her head rose as the sidewalk crossing changed to the silver, bold letters that granted them passage. "You're right," she replied easily. "My plans have been foiled. You'll just have to agree to talk to him on your own."

He sighed at her persistence. "You're just not going to stop with this, are you?"

The question was friendlier than it could have been, and as cruel as the words might have been on their own, he hoped that his tone made her realize that he wasn't angry.

"No, I'm not," she replied with equal kindness. "I would _really_ appreciate it if you did this for me."

Well, that much was obvious, Wilson thought wryly.

But he still wasn't ready to commit.

"Lets say I agree to have a little chat with House. What exactly are you expecting me to do?"

"I would prefer it if you didn't kill him," she replied honestly, the remark eliciting a smirk from him. "Though I can understand the desire to do that, I really don't want you in jail _or_ him dead, so I'm _hoping_ we can keep murder off the table."

"Pretend that we can," he told her.

"Then…" She shrugged. "I don't really care what you say to him. I mean obviously I _hope_ that you two will reach some sort of… understanding, but I don't expect it." She cocked her head, so she could give him a serious look, the emotion behind it something he couldn't quite discern. "I just want you two in the same room. What you say or _don't say_… that's up to you."

That seemed fair, he thought to himself. She obviously wanted him to make up with House, but she wasn't expecting it, which meant that she wouldn't be angry with Wilson if he didn't forgive House for all of his sins.

Of course… there _was_ something to be said for faking it. Although Cuddy was _saying_ that she wasn't expecting anything, Wilson realized that there was a good possibility that she was lying. And if that were the case, then she _would_ be upset when things didn't end with a rousing rendition of Kumbaya.

But then again, if that were to happen, the fault wouldn't lie with _Wilson_. Worst case scenario, she'd be pissed at him for a bit – at least until he made her realize that it was _her_ fault for having unreasonable expectations. And then in that case, she'd feel even more guilty about everything that had happened then she already did, and _he_ would be able to use that to his advantage.

Conversely, if she were being honest about her expectations, then agreeing to do what she wanted would work in Wilson's favor no matter how a conversation with House ended. If it ended well (which it wouldn't), she'd be happy that their collective situation had changed and indebted to him as a result. If things ended terribly (which they would), she'd have to accept that he'd _agreed_ to what she'd wanted and still be indebted to him.

So really…

As anathema as it felt, agreeing to meet with House was _actually_ a win-win situation for him. Machiavelli himself couldn't have come up with a better scenario for Wilson to further his friendship with Cuddy while simultaneously once and for all dealing with House.

At that point, Wilson thought that he must have been smiling, because Cuddy interrupted, "Wilson?"

He shook his head to clear away the rather dark thoughts in his mind – and they _were_ dark. For someone who usually tried to do the right thing, who usually believed in kindness and the goodness of the human spirit, examining a potential conversation like he just had was completely out of character. And there was no denying that, he knew.

But then at the same time, there was _also_ no ignoring the fact that Amber's death had changed him.

It had made him colder, angrier, quicker to judge.

Quicker to hate.

The person he'd become since her death was scarcely one his longtime friends would recognize. But Wilson knew that it _was_ himself, nonetheless, and he could only try to either change or accept that fact. And since he wasn't ready to do the former, he had to cling to the latter.

He just had to accept that this was who he was now.

And in the spirit of that, he decided to explore a few more facets of Cuddy's suggestion before accepting her deal. The old Wilson would have probably said yes by now, but the new one needed to know more. "What if I say that, in the spirit of friendship and doing things for one another, I need you to respect my wishes and accept that I'm _not_ ready to talk to House?"

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him carefully as they waited to cross the street once more; they'd gotten in a bad traffic cycle (despite _not_ driving), and it seemed like the roads of Princeton had conspired to keep this conversation going as long as possible. "Is that your way of saying you won't do it?"

He shrugged. "That's my way of asking a question."

"Then I would say I asked you to do this for me _first_, so it wouldn't be right for you, as my friend, to then ask me for something that goes against that wish," she said with a surprisingly jovial smile.

Once she'd realized the seriousness of the question, he'd expected her to get angry. But instead, she seemed to be in quite the flirtatious mood, and despite the brief moments of hurt and pain, for the most part, she was lighter and more humorous than he'd seen her in a while. And he had to wonder then if he hadn't been the only one to benefit from this little outing.

He kept the thought to himself, however, and simply murmured, "Well, who can argue with that logic?"

Her smile faltered then, her mood turning slightly more serious as she realized that that matter had been dropped. "So will you do it?"

"Out of curiosity," he said, angling for a little reciprocity. "If I do this for you, what do I get in return?"

She looked confused. "You want me to _bribe_ you?"

"No," he answered with a shake of the head. The question hadn't come out right, and he hadn't meant to sound as though he was asking her to sweeten the deal for him. "I'm just wondering how you envision this working. You think we need to do more for each other. Okay, fine, but… I _guess_ I don't know what it is that you feel like you can do for me – or what it is that you're _willing_ to do."

"Whatever you want," she said quickly, stressing each syllable to apparently let him know how serious she was. "Whatever you need."

Wilson realized there was a lot of leeway in this matter. "Whatever he wanted," "Whatever he needed" – that covered a lot of ground.

A _lot_ of ground.

These last two months he'd been thinking about how much Cuddy's absence had hurt him. He'd been telling himself all this time that, if she were around, things would be different for him. He would be happier, able to move on with his life, able to feel as though every good thing in his life hadn't been destroyed.

And here she was, giving him the freedom to ask for exactly what he'd wanted all this time, and…

It didn't feel right.

Or it did; it felt right as in it felt like it was the thing she should be doing. Her proposition felt like something he could get behind.

But what it didn't make him feel was _satisfied_.

At best, the whole situation had become anti-climactic for him, and all of the consolations she was now making – or at least willing to make – seemed like watered-down visions of what had been in his mind. And though he was getting _exactly_ what he wanted, it felt like the _last_ thing he _really_ wanted.

"I don't know," he admitted with a hint of misery. "I don't know what I want."

She nodded her head in understanding. "Think about it."

But that was actually the last thing he wanted to do now, because it seemed like his concern only compounded itself when he thought the matter through. And though he wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not, a sudden urge to just… _blurt out_ the first thing that came to mind coursed through his body.

He'd never been an impulsive person, but the _new_ Wilson couldn't take any more cautiousness. Enough with the careful prose and the Machiavellian consideration, he opened his mouth and allowed the first words that came to mind to spill off his tongue. "I want you to visit Amber's grave with me."

Her hand squeezed his. "Done."

But he was reticent to believe her; apparently, he could only handle spontaneity in small doses, he thought wryly. "'Done'?"

"If that's what you need me to do, _of course_, I'll go with you. It's the least I can do, considering I didn't go to her funeral," Cuddy told him.

To which he silently agreed; he realized that he could have pushed the matter to make her feel guilty (or to feel _guiltier_, anyway). However, at that moment, he was more interested in avoiding another fight than creating one. "Tomorrow?"

"Will you talk to House?"

He pulled his hand out of hers as soon as the question escaped her lips. He hadn't wanted to start another fight, but she was certainly doing the best she could to provoke him into one. "Is that the only reason why you're saying yes? To make me talk to House?"

The accusation definitely startled her, which wasn't hard to understand. They'd been having a fairly nice discussion, and his abrupt return to anger was obviously a divergence from that. But then again, how she could have expected him _not_ to become angry after hearing _that_ was beyond his understanding.

Quickly, she said, "_No_. No, that's not – I wasn't asking you because of that." She was back peddling as fast as her tongue would allow. "I was just asking –"

"So that you wouldn't have to commit yourself to witnessing my grief unless you had to," Wilson finished furiously.

"_No_. I was asking, because, if you _were_ willing to talk to House, I would want it to happen _today_. And in that case, I didn't think you would want to meet with me tomorrow, because I didn't think you would want to see me after _that_ conversation." Her fingers readjusting themselves on the stem of the umbrella, Cuddy murmured, "I was trying to be nice."

He blinked.

That definitely hadn't been the answer he was expecting. And honestly, he couldn't help but feel like a little bit of a jackass for having automatically jumped to such a negative conclusion.

To further that feeling, he stupidly said, "Oh."

"_Yeah_." She didn't snap or bark, but there was a definite amount of coolness in the single word.

Which was effective enough for him to wiggle a little bit in shame. "Sorry."

It was all she needed, it would seem.

Instantly her icy exterior melted, sliding off of her features with as much ease and grace as rivulets of rain glided along the contours of her umbrella. Replacing the anger and annoyance was something that he decided was compassion – was something that he himself had admittedly been lacking for the last two months.

And he felt incredibly… beholden to her in that moment.

He'd wanted her friendship, and she was trying to give it to him the best way she knew how. There was no denying that fact, and even though he somehow wanted _more_ from her, he knew that she was giving him all that she could.

Where as he was giving her…

What exactly?

Half the time he was snapping down her throat; the other half he spent confiding in her things he had no right to share – and those times were worse than when he was angry. Because he was asking for her to understand, to console, to take on the burden of memories that threatened to crush him. In those moments, he was placing on her a weight she didn't deserve; he was giving himself a reprieve he knew he didn't deserve.

He was being selfish and…

And _abusive_.

And all of a sudden, it – keeping and enjoying New Wilson – wasn't a choice for him anymore. As much as he'd been complacent with this ugly… _cancer_ invading him, looking at his behavior now the only thing that was clear was that it _had_ to be destroyed.

He _had_ to change.

He _had_ to fix this before he angered Cuddy to the point where she no longer wanted to be near him.

And it was almost hilarious that he'd had to go this far with her to realize that fact. After all that had happened with House, after watching that _man_ take on his own downward trajectory, Wilson thought that he should have known that the same would happen to him. Being a selfish asshole only paid off for so long, a fact that House's life had been a testament to.

It was _also_ a fact that Cuddy had thrown in Wilson's face before now. Although the earliest weeks after Amber's passing were hard to recall, grief and gin a potent combination, he _did_ remember the fight he'd had at Cuddy's home. She'd seen him completely trashed out of his mind and said that he'd been doing his best to become House.

And she'd been _right_.

He'd been so busy embracing his anger and grief, so _selfishly_ expecting the rest of the world to back down in the face of his pain that he hadn't seen just how House-like he'd become.

But he had, and in doing so, he'd set his life on a course that only had one possible destination. So really, Wilson felt that the embarrassment and regret knotted at the back of his throat was completely and wholly deserved and expected.

And he didn't know if it was those emotions or the concern that telling Cuddy "no" would push her away permanently that made him do it. But regardless, whatever the reason, Wilson found himself nodding his head. "I'll do it."

This time she was the one to blink numbly.

At first Cuddy was sure that she'd heard him wrong. Considering how much she'd had to fight to have any decent conversation with her companion, she thought she must have misunderstood.

_Of course_, she'd heard him wrong, she told herself almost immediately.

It wasn't like she'd said anything in this little date of theirs that she hadn't said before. And there was no real reason for him to be any more open to it now than he'd been two days ago, two weeks ago, or two months ago. So to assume, to believe, even for a _second_ that he was willing to meet with House was _asking_ for disappointment.

Yet, she was _so_ sure that that _was_ what he'd agreed to do. Her mind thought it was insane to even consider that idea, but her heart pounded with the knowledge that he'd said _exactly_ what she'd been hoping to hear him say.

Clearing her throat, she asked calmly, "You'll do it?"

Wilson hesitated to answer the question. He didn't give her an outright no, which was a good thing. But at the same time, any hesitation made her heart sink with the fear of failure.

With each second passing, it felt more and more certain that she really had misheard him, or worse, that she'd only heard what she'd wanted to hear. And with that came the feeling of panic; if she'd gotten it wrong, no matter the reason, she would have to explain – _justify_ – herself, and she wasn't sure she could think quickly enough to come up with a convincing lie.

Instantly her mind began to scramble for the words to smooth over what she'd just asked. She wondered what she could say to make Wilson forget that she'd just implied that he'd said yes. But she had _no_ idea what to tell him.

And in the end, she didn't need to say anything, because Wilson nodded his head. As they crossed the final distance to the hospital, he said in a voice that wasn't entirely confident, "I'll do it. I'll talk to House after work."

She stopped in front of the hospital's entrance, the lack of movement forcing him to do the same. A smile on her face, she asked, needing the reassurance, "Really?"

"Yes," he said in a manner that made her think that he was annoyed at her. Furthering that point as he stepped towards the hospital once more, he called over his shoulder, "And to prepare myself, I'm blowing off my clinic hours."

Standing alone in the rain for a few minutes, Cuddy couldn't help but feel as though a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She'd spent so much time and energy to get this far that she was nothing short of relieved to see all of her hard work finally – _finally_ – paying off. And that alone was worth a couple hours of unperformed clinic duty.

Getting House and Wilson together was also more than worth finishing up the termination papers she'd been working on, she realized. Certainly making sure that _House_ was _prepared_ for such a visit was worth the sacrifice, and God only knew that, if he weren't aware that such a conversation was about to occur, her hard work would be for nothing.

So deciding right then and there to blow off work for a little while, she stalked to her office. As she briskly passed her assistant, Cuddy told the girl in a serious tone, "Hold all my calls. Don't let anyone in. Unless it's an absolute emergency, I want to be left alone."

"Do you want some Midol?"

Cuddy practically snarled out a "No." The implication that the problem was her period didn't bother her, but the idea that her assistant had memorized Cuddy's menstrual cycle _did_.

Or maybe bother wasn't the right word, because that fact didn't exactly _bother_ her. It just… made things more difficult for her right _now_. Truth be told, the last thing she wanted to do was waste time explaining why she wanted something to be done; her assistant's job was to _assist_, and…

And handling _that_ wasn't important right now, Cuddy told herself, forcing her feet to move into her office.

She shut the door forcefully. Though it didn't approach a slam, the blinds on the windows rattled loudly nonetheless. The irritating sound probably would have been enough to give her a headache if it had lasted long, but thankfully by the time she sat down and picked up the phone, it had dissipated.

Then again, she was hardly in the clear if trying to talk to House was in her near future. And he was definitely _not _interested in dissuading her from believing that; the second he answered the phone, he barked, "What?"

Her voice low, both in tone and volume, she told him gently, "It's time for you to take your medicine."

"Fine."

"Make sure you write it –"

He hung up.

She supposed she'd been lying when she'd stated that he hadn't talked to her for two days. The only way she could handle leaving him alone at home was to call him when it was time for him to take his medication, forcing him to say those two words to her multiple times a day.

But that hardly counted as actual _conversation. _

Three times during her work day she would call him; three times a day he would hang up on her, and _three times a day_, she would worry as to whether he was actually listening to her when she instructed him to take his meds.

Obviously Cuddy _wanted_ to believe that he was taking the drugs when she said to and in the doses she said to (though on the latter she'd given him an extra chance to succeed by only leaving him the exact amount of medication he needed to get through the day). She _wanted_ to believe that he would write down the times he'd taken the drugs on the off chance that he forgot about taking the medication.

She _had_ to believe those things in order to get through the day. If she allowed herself, even for a moment, to think that he was doing something harmful, intentional or otherwise…

She'd be driving home as quickly as her car would allow her.

Red lights be damned.

And maybe he knew that. Maybe House _knew_ that, by refusing to write things down and by hanging up, he was worrying her.

Perhaps that was what he wanted.

But either way, intentional or not, she did worry, although she did usually spare him the pain of having to suffer through any more phone calls than was absolutely necessary. As much as he might have _deserved_ the pain of listening to the extra rings, she pitied him enough to spare him.

That logic wouldn't apply today, though.

As she hit redial, she told herself that this wasn't about making him feel any worse than he needed to. He would accuse her of that, of course, but her intention was to let him know that Wilson was coming over – nothing more or less.

However, House didn't seem to appreciate the extra noise. Answering phone loudly, he practically yelled, "What the _hell_ do you want, woman?"

"Did you take your medication?" She tried to sound as calm as possible, but the fact that _he_ sounded like a man ready to lose his mind unnerved her.

He'd been heading down this road for the last couple of days. His precarious physical condition combined with the rain and lack of sleep made for an unbalanced House that she didn't exactly know how to deal with.

A loud guttural sound, the noise approaching a growl, carried over the line before he added the words, "I am _trying_ to do that, but you just keep calling me, don't you?"

She bit down on her tongue until she was sure she'd bite through it. She'd expected this conversation to go terribly, but somehow it seemed like a slap in the face now that she was actually in the midst of talking to him.

But she supposed that she had to keep trying for all of their sakes. "House, I need –"

She didn't get a chance to finish the thought as he supplied sarcastically, "To stop calling? Cause, _yeah_, I was thinking that to."

"Don't hang up," she said quickly and louder than she intended. _Much_ louder than she intended, she amended as she heard House hiss into the line. And though she probably should have apologized, intuitively Cuddy felt that that would only make things worse. So instead, she got down to business and told him, "We need to talk about something."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"_House_," she both warned and implored by elongating his name. "I discussed some things with Wilson today, and –"

"Don't care," he interrupted defensively, almost as though he were afraid of what she would say.

She ignored the remark. "And _we_ agreed that –"

"As _thrilled_ as I am to hear you ladies have synched up your cycles once more, I'd rather _not_ hear about it."

Just from the way he was talking, she could tell that he was already moving to put the phone in the receiver. And that meant she had to blurt out as quickly as she could, "He's coming over after work to talk to you."

The confession – which was what it sounded like, even though in truth, she was speaking of a _plan _– was one she expected him to react to with silence. Considering how well the last attempt to get the two men to talk had gone, Cuddy had anticipated that House would need to quietly think about this before saying anything.

But instead, she got an immediate and decisive "_No_."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"He's not coming over, and I'm not talking to him," House said in a final tone.

And though that voice would have had others backing off before he'd even finished the sentence, it didn't work on her.

It _couldn't_ work on her – not when she'd spent so much time trying to get them to talk.

Really, more than likely, there was nothing he could say or do that would get her to drop the matter. But if there were, certainly, he would have to work for that, she told herself. "He _is_, and you _are_."

"_No_, I'm –"

"You don't have a choice," she said hastily. "He's coming over this evening, and that's all there is to it."

"Actually," he started to correct in clipped tones. "I think it's more accurate for me to say that _I'm_ not talking to him, and if he comes over… I won't –"

"Answer the door? Because I'm thinking you _will_ if only to avoid listening to him ring the doorbell."

She sounded snotty and disgustingly knowing, even to her own ears. She couldn't deny that she had the upper hand in this situation, as House's physical health and dependency on her largely gave her control over what happened to him. But then she also couldn't deny that it would have been _way_ more mature to take the high road on this.

Not that either she or House were particularly interested on taking the high road apparently. At some point in their friendship, at least when it came to one another, they'd permanently set up camp on the low road; they'd been there so long that if either of them had been the type to build, they'd have their own set of condominiums overlooking the sewage-filled ditches by now.

Offering the punctuation on that image, House replied, "If there's one thing you should have learned by now, it probably should have been that I have no problem suffering if it means outmaneuvering you."

There was no denying that, she supposed. He was like a child throwing a tantrum in that respect. Even when she was the one technically in charge, even when she was the one who technically had control, if he wanted something (or didn't want something), he would kick and scream for that lollipop long after she'd dragged him out of the drugstore.

Or something, she thought, shaking her head to refocus her mind. She really didn't have time to deal with analogies at the moment – not when she was _also _trying to handle House.

"I know what you're capable of," she told him, feeling as though she were verbally stroking his ego. "Which is why I _also_ know that you're more than able to comprehend the opportunity you have here."

"_Yeah_, I get it. But I don't think you do."

She was more exhausted than angered at that point. And though she felt as though she should respond with irritation – at least give him a _small_ taste of his own medicine – she didn't have it in her. "What does that mean?"

"It means that while you're sitting there thinking that everything will be okay, that Wilson and I will make up, I _know_ that that's not going to happen. I _know_ that you're wrong."

And though he didn't say it, underneath all of those words, Cuddy could tell that he was afraid.

It wasn't hard to understand _why_ that was. The last attempt at reaching out to Wilson hadn't gone well, and House was one of those people who took rejection as poorly as a human being could. Which was almost ironic, considering how doggedly persistent he could be; his determination and stubbornness qualities she couldn't even begin to imagine him without, they should have made him much braver than he was with personal relationships.

Should have was clearly the key phrase in that sentence, because for all his posturing, the fact was he _was _a coward when it came to dealing with the people he cared about.

Naturally putting it that way made it seem like she judged him for that. And nothing could have been further from the truth, actually, as she didn't find herself to be any braver in that respect. If anything, she felt _weaker_ than he was, so afraid to be close to others that she'd never had a Wilson to lose; in all of her life, she'd had many friends, but she'd _never _had one as close as that.

She'd never had a best friend to confide anything and everything to.

But House _had_, and he'd _lost_ him, and it wasn't hard to understand why he was so afraid now. Anyone would have been in the same situation, she told herself; _anyone_ would have wanted to avoid being told that their best friend hated them.

Yet she also knew that, if things were ever going to be better – for _any_ of them, House would have to talk to Wilson.

Knowing that, she consoled in calm tones. "I know that you're worried about what he might tell you. You don't want him to say that he hates you, and I understand that. But the way this gets better – the way he leans to _forgive _you – involves you _talking_ to him."

"_No_."

His voice was a dangerous growl. Not unlike the sound a caged animal, afraid and ready to attack, would make, it was proof enough that he was on the verge of slamming the phone down and never speaking to her again.

And that would have only been for starters. There was an eager fury in the single word he'd practically hissed, and she would have been stupid to think that that would be the worst he would do; he was angry enough – he was _dumbly_ angry – to do all sorts of things that she didn't want to think about.

And the need to end the conversation, to diffuse the tension between them immediately became all she cared about then.

Sighing, Cuddy said in a softer voice, "This is how this is going to work: Wilson _is_ coming over." Her tone, though kind, left no room for disagreement, which was exactly what she wanted. As odd as it might have been to make such a final statement to someone so clearly desperate for control, she understood what needed to be done. She _knew _that the way this chat with them ended best was with her giving him a specific set of options. A lesser person would have caved to his demands, but she knew better.

Because if she'd given him what he'd wanted, if she'd said, "Okay, Wilson won't come over," two things would have happened. Firstly, he would have become arrogantly pleased with himself; his chest would have puffed up as though his lungs were capable of housing days' worth of air in them. And he would have let that good, egotistical high control him for as long as it could possibly last; he'd ignore everything she said to do; he'd take risks with his own health and life that he knew rationally were stupid.

And eventually, the second thing would happen: he would crash. Not only because screwing her over was a temporary high, but also because at some point, House would realize that winning this particular argument was nothing more or less than a loss for himself. Unlike taking a risk with one of his patients' lives, by getting her to back off, he would realize that he'd essentially lost all chance to make up with Wilson.

Which she was desperate to avoid at all cost.

So she went against the grain, went against what seemed like the most logical and stated without any room for disagreement that Wilson _would_ be coming over. And to make House feel _slightly_ in control of himself, she offered him two choices. "If you don't want to talk to him, don't. Just sit back and watch him walk out of your life _forever_."

He started to say something along the lines of "Enough with the dramatics," but she cut him off.

"But if you have any desire at all to earn his forgiveness, you're going to accept that he's coming over, and you're going to prepare yourself for it. You're going to _stop_ fighting with me," she told him in a cold voice. "You're going to take your medication _and _a bath, so he doesn't faint at the smell of you."

She waited for him to blurt something out about how the scent of his studliness was only offensive to her cloistered self or something along those lines. But no remark ever came, and she forced herself continue elaborating on what he should do. "You're going to lie down. You're going to get some sleep, so that you're not so damn _cranky_ with him. And you're going to be friendly and supportive and _nice_ and all of the things that are so abhorrent to your senses when he gets there."

Cuddy expected him to slam down the phone; she'd made her point, and he, understanding that intuitively, should have written anything else she had to say off as something not worth listening to. At least, she thought that he _would have_. But instead he simply asked in a voice that offered no emotional insight, "And where will you be for our homemade episode of the Jenny Jones show?"

Her answer was immediate. "I will be there with you. He's stopping by after work, and I'm going to make sure that all of the things I need to take care of will be done by then," she promised. In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but think she was being repetitive by constantly telling House when Wilson was coming over.

But then again, given House's brain injury and his overall stubborn nature, she supposed that there was something to be said for reiterating the point over and over. Which was why she added, "I won't let you do this alone. I will be there."

House didn't believe her, however; he _definitely_ didn't put much faith in her ability to show up, because his response was to scoff at her words – to scoff loudly before hanging up and leaving her to wonder if she really were doing the best thing for him.

* * *

Wilson spent the rest of the day alternating between maintaining his workload in the oncology department and helping Foreman look for a new case. Truthfully, when he'd first returned to work, Wilson had wanted to avoid working with the cancer patients; he'd tried to pawn off his cases on lesser doctors in the same field.

He'd done everything he could to avoid the certainty of death that seemed so oppressive these last two months.

Maybe it had been stupid to think this, but Wilson had truly believed that handling cases where the patient had a _shot_ would be more helpful to his own well being. He'd thought that he would feel better saving lives than witnessing the destruction of life.

But the fact of the matter was working in diagnostics had been even more a reminder of the inevitability that loomed over everyone.

As odd as that was, it was the truth; Wilson had never felt so aware of how easy it was to kill someone as he had in the last couple of days. Because even though cancer was one of those buzz words that instantly made people think of death, the reality was this: death never seemed closer than when you had no idea how to stop it, when you had no idea what was pushing you closer to it. Cancer might have been just as deadly, but Wilson knew how to deal with that.

And because of that, he'd had to reassess how he felt about working in oncology.

He hadn't wanted to come back to that, his legs itching to move on to something different. But he could see now that the oncology was where he belonged. It was what he was good at, what he knew how to do, and if he were any good at being a doctor – if he were to be of _any_ use to anyone, working in oncology was what he had to do. So he'd spent the day balancing his time between re-embracing his normal caseload and trying to give Foreman one.

Frankly, Wilson would have been happy to say goodbye to diagnostics all together. But since he'd kind of been an _ass _to Foreman – _and_ since Foreman currently needed Wilson's name to get Cuddy to get a case – Wilson felt beholden to the younger man.

However nothing came out of his helping hand. At the end of the day, there was no case to solve; there wasn't even anything that could potentially _be_ a case to work with. And so by the time the workday finished, Wilson was frustrated with his inability to give Foreman what he wanted.

Really, it shouldn't have seemed like much, but if Wilson had been able to acquire a new case for the diagnostics department, it would have been… a nice way to _try_ and undo the damage he'd done only days previously. It might not have fixed everything – it _wouldn't_ have fixed everything. But it would have been a nice start, a peace offering of sorts that said, "I'm sorry for doing something that made our boss look at you as though she were going to eat you alive."

Okay, that might have been a stretch.

It would definitely take more than a single case to make Foreman forget that Cuddy had rubbed his failures in his face. It would absolutely take more than a case for Taub's injured manhood to be soothed, despite the fact that Cuddy had essentially said she wasn't interested in him. It _wouldn't_ take anything more than a case to make Kutner happy, but then Kutner was _already_ happy.

Nothing got _him_ down.

And to be completely honest, with the conversation with House breathing down his neck, Wilson could only wish that he'd been given some of Kutner's positive outlook on life.

It wasn't that Wilson thought that things would go badly.

It was that he _knew_ they would go as _horribly_ as human possible.

The bombing of Hiroshima, the non-existent weapons of mass destruction, the Titanic – all of those things would look like wonderful, cheerful events compared to what was going to happen in House's apartment.

And Wilson had to wonder why he'd ever agreed to have a conversation to begin with. Had he really been that desperate to prove himself to Cuddy? To be her friend? Had he really been that convinced that talking to House would be a good thing?

Wilson guessed the answer was yes to all of those things on one level or another. But knowing that didn't exactly make him feel better; if anything, it just made him feel as though he'd willingly stepped towards his doom to accomplish something he hadn't even set out to do.

It was almost a morbid thought that occupied his mind as he finished the workday by gathering his briefcase and courage. But it was what he was thinking nonetheless.

And it remained in his mind until he was at House's apartment, standing outside in the hallway.

Wilson hadn't knocked yet, and he was still dabbling with the idea of turning and walking away without ever doing it. When he'd left the hospital Cuddy's car was still in the lot, so he considered at that moment that he could easily slip away unscathed – without anyone knowing the wiser.

For now anyway.

He supposed that if he were to leave without saying a word, without doing what he'd said he'd do, he would have to _eventually_ deal with the fallout of that choice. _Eventually_ Cuddy would learn that he hadn't talked to House, and House would probably learn that too one way or the other.

And then where would they be?

House would react with anger and blame – all of it directed towards Cuddy. And she would, in turn, be more miserable than Wilson wanted to see her be. Which would make him feel guilty, for starters.

And if he didn't sound (even in his own mind, that was) all that serious about her misery, it was because he knew she would make him feel that emotion ten fold. Of that he had no doubt. After all, her agreeing to visit Amber's grave was predicated on him doing this.

Cuddy hadn't actually _said_ that, of course, but Wilson was smart enough to know that nothing came without a catch.

Nothing among this circle of individuals anyway.

So he knew: If he ran away now, she would never do what he needed her to do. She would never see what he _needed_ her to be a witness of.

Honestly, he didn't know why it was so important to take her to Amber's grave.

There was no… acknowledged symbolism in the act; he wasn't replacing his dead girlfriend with Cuddy. He wasn't entrusting her to keep Amber's memory or anything like that.

He just….

He didn't really know.

He supposed he _just_ wanted Cuddy to see for herself what he'd lost. He wanted her to see that House's mistakes didn't occur in a vacuum, that they didn't come without a _cost_. And he wanted her to understand that, even if that price came at the expense at other lives and other families for years, the closer she got to House, the more likely it would be that she _would_ have to pay eventually.

She wouldn't escape unscathed, able to move forward with her life without him. That just wasn't how House and his so-called friendship operated.

_Why_ no one had been around to tell Wilson this, he didn't know. He wished – desired with all of his heart and soul – that someone had, but he hadn't been lucky like that.

He'd had to learn that lesson in a painful collision of metal and events, of physical damage and sloppy planning on House's part.

And although part of Wilson felt that Cuddy deserved to experience something just as painful as a punishment for all of her betrayals, he _couldn't_ do that to her.

He could _not_ hurt Cuddy like that.

Which meant that he _had_ to go through with this conversation.

He really _did_ have to talk to House.

Standing there in the hallway, his hand curled into a fist, Wilson wondered if this was how men felt as they journeyed to the gallows. He wondered if that dreadful feeling of inevitability coursed through their veins in the same way it moved through his.

He wondered, but he gave himself no opening to find an answer to the question; instead he cleared his throat and bravely raised his fist to the door, his knuckles rapping against the wood several times. Four times to be exact, he noted, his mind intuitively trying to take control of the situation by delineating pointless details he had no use for.

For that reason, he noticed that, although he could hear House in the apartment, the door didn't open right away. House's footsteps were uneven, as they typically were, but slower than normal. A traitorous part of Wilson wondered if that meant that the other man's pain was worse than normal.

But Wilson was quick to squelch that concern, to refuse to give it even the slightest bit of oxygen to breathe and expand within his consciousness.

And when House answered the door, his eyes rimmed red, hair disheveled and body covered in a thin sheet of sweat, Wilson thought that it was really easy _not_ to care. House looked high, looked like a _junkie_ in the worst and least sympathetic way possible, making it easy for Wilson to ask in disgusted amazement, "Are you high?"

House made a bitter quip about Nurse Ratched, forcing Wilson to respond loudly, "Right. Withdrawal then?"

House offered no answer other than a non-committal shrug that Wilson didn't know how to take.

Truth be told, he _had_ expected House to confirm or deny the accusation one way or the other. As much as the man _rarely_ defended himself, House – the House of yester year, anyway – would have offered his _best friend_ (Wilson thought of the moniker with disdain) an answer.

But House hadn't, which made Wilson want to turn around and leave. Really, if House wasn't even going to pretend to be interested in the obligatory small talk, angry and heated as it was, then Wilson couldn't help but feel that all of this was a waste of time. He couldn't help but feel that only the worst of things could come from this.

Except rationally he _knew_ that that wasn't true. He had to remind himself that he was there was something good to be had from all of this, but it _was_ true: he would get something – he would get _Cuddy's_ loyalty – from this…

If he were to play his cards right.

The prompting all he needed to refocus his attentions, Wilson said awkwardly, "Right. Well, I can't stay long. Cuddy told me to stop by."

House waved Wilson inside, both men taking a seat on the couch. But that was, it seemed, the closest they could come to any sort of détente. Because nearly the second they started talking to one another once more, Wilson felt his hatred for House grow, make itself known.

Wilson had _tried_ to be almost conversational when he asked, "So Cuddy's living with you?"

Yet conversation was the last thing he felt like making when House joked, "Soon as Foreman gets a cap busted in his ass or Cameron has an accident with the peroxide, Cuddy'll move onto them."

The remark made Wilson laugh, of course, but it wasn't the kind of laugh you made when you actually enjoyed what the other person was saying; it was the kind of chuckle _he_ made when he couldn't believe how _stupidly_ unaware of human emotions House was being. "You think she's treating you just like she would anyone else in your position?"

"No. I think she's doing this to satisfy her guilt complex."

There was a bitterness in House's words that Wilson could only feel in his bones. House was clearly under the delusion that Cuddy didn't care about him at all. It was so… _stupid_ and _unfeeling_ that Wilson wanted to strangle the other man until he realized just how _lucky_ he really was.

Because Cuddy hadn't been living with him out of obligation. She hadn't waited on him hand and foot just because it was one of those things that she felt she had to do.

She was doing it because she cared, because she loved him even more than Wilson thought she was willing to admit.

And the truly most horrible part about all of it was that, if he had been in House's position, Wilson would have never had the nerve to complain about being treated out of duty.

At this point in his life, it was all he wanted, all _he_ could _hope_ for.

And even then, no matter how much he tried to guilt Cuddy, her attention was _always_ with _House_.

It was a fact that House couldn't appreciate, that he wouldn't have cared about even if he realized just how true it was. Which meant that…

_Nothing_ had changed for him.

Cuddy had said that things were different, that he was sad and depressed and all of that.

But this was proof that _House_ was still _House_.

"You're unbelievable, House," Wilson said in disbelief. His hands in the air, he continued, "Just this _once_, I was hoping… that things would change for you."

Which made House snap angrily. "_Right_. See, I was thinking spending every waking moment with _Cuddy_ in my drug-free, porn-free, fun-free apartment _was_ a change. And a crappy one at that. But you're right. Nothing's changed. That jumbo box of super tampons in my bathroom has always been there."

The comment about the tampons struck Wilson the most – mainly for its sheer ridiculousness.

Granted, _everything_ in House's list of "Things I did this summer" were pretty ridiculous. Being without porn hardly constituted a real change – nor was it indicative of any sort of _suffering_. And Wilson seriously doubted that House was drug-free, considering all of the ailments Cuddy had mentioned that House was suffering from.

But it really was the tampons that pushed Wilson over the edge.

Maybe it was the fact that the mention definitely shed new light on Cuddy's decision to have ice cream today. Maybe it was the fact that imagining House with a box of tampons in his hands conjured all sorts of prepubescent jokes in Wilson's mind. But whatever the reason, it was enough to make Wilson take a verbal step back.

His voice slightly calmer, he conceded, "All right, certain things have changed. But you… _haven't_, and I –"

House rolled his eyes. "You've been here two minutes. You don't know –"

And that was more than enough to send Wilson back over the edge.

"Come on, House!" His hands bunched into fists, and he had to mentally remind himself that hitting House would _not_ make Cuddy happy. "After _everything_ you've done, someone still has the patience to stand by you, and _you_ resent it."

It was such typical House crap that Wilson thought it shouldn't have made him so angry. But it did; it _was_, and he was nearly hysterical over it. "_Cuddy_ has bent over _backwards_ to keep you happy, and you feel _trapped_!"

Expectantly, Wilson waited for House to offer some defense. Realistically Wilson understood that that was foolish at best, as there really was no defense to make in moments like these. But he still expected – _hoped_ – that House would try.

And that he hadn't made Wilson feel the need to point out just what it was that House was taking advantage of, being _unappreciative_ of. "You have a beautiful, smart, successful woman willing to do _anything _to help you."

He tried to avoid adding too much emotion or to list all of Cuddy's good qualities like a lovesick puppy. But somehow House managed to see through all of that anyway. "What – you want her?"

"_This_ isn't a game," Wilson snapped. "You can't just… play _swapsies_." God only knew that he wished they would, that they could, but he couldn't force Cuddy to see what he was offering much less demand her to accept it.

His voice quieter, he said, "Cuddy chose you. Over her job, over her other –"

"You mean she chose me over _you_."

The simplicity of House's correct deduction took Wilson's breath away.

It was exactly what he'd been thinking.

It was precisely what he'd been feeling all of this time and what he'd been trying to overcompensate for by telling himself that he didn't need Cuddy or her help.

But House – with his brilliant mind and his occasional ability to understand human nature with startling clarity – had seen what the truth was.

And Wilson didn't know why he said it then, but he, searching to see just how much he knew, asked House, "You know she didn't even come to Amber's funeral?"

"Probably on account of the fact that she didn't like her," House offered readily.

If Wilson had been calmer, he would have sarcastically considered that the time for House's insights had come to a dramatic and quick close. But the fact was Wilson was _not_ calm.

He was _livid_ at the reminder of what Cuddy had done and even more furious by the way House so easily parlayed that knowledge about a conversation.

"You're an ass," Wilson said viciously. "You've been sitting here for weeks, no doubt feeling bad. And I _believed_ Cuddy when she said it was because of me and –"

"Yeah. I _can't_ stop thinking about you, Wilson. Wanna see the shrine I built?"

It was the kind of sarcasm Wilson expected but did not want. "But she was _wrong_," he continued. "You don't feel bad about what you _did_. All you've been thinking about is yourself, what _you_ don't have." He was shaking his head in disgust, his face red as he stood up. "I lost the woman I wanted to spend my _life_ with. Who I honestly _could _have done that with. And _you_ didn't lose _anything." _

He laughed at the irony.

He'd always believed that people eventually got what they deserved. But in this case… the only one who had suffered was _him_. He bled for the woman he loved; _he_ wished day and night that he had died in her place, and _House_ just got to go on with his life like nothing had ever happened.

"You _gained_ from all this. A lot. You got someone who's _voluntarily _putting up with your insanity. And you can't even appreciate that." He turned away from House and quietly added, "You can't appreciate our _friendship_ enough to stop _joking_ about it."

At that point, House stood as well, but Wilson was already on the move.

This had been a mistake.

And the sooner he put distance between this twisted wart of a human being and himself, the better he would be. "Just… _don't_," Wilson warned to ward him off. He was no longer interested in hearing anything House had to say.

This had been a _mistake_, Wilson repeated to himself, the horror around him soaking into his consciousness slowly. This was something that he shouldn't have even _tried_ to do, much less something Cuddy should have asked him to attempt.

This was something he had to end, had to _escape_.

_Now_.

Shaking he took a step towards the door. If he stayed here any longer, he _would_ do something he'd regret.

But he'd barely moved past the couch when the front door opened to reveal a shocked Cuddy.

There was take out at her feet and a dismayed frown settling upon her lips.

She could feel it happening as she realized that she was late. She'd hoped to get to the apartment before Wilson, but getting dinner for all of them had taken longer than she'd expected. And between House's pained expression, his face red with agitation, and Wilson's visible disgust, Cuddy could tell that it had been to both of their detriments.

House, ill equipped to deal with this alone, had surely said something horrible and _horrifying_ to Wilson, and Wilson had no doubt taken the sarcasm as glibness… which House was anything but as of late.

And she knew what all of that had inevitably led to, because as the door opened all the way, she could _see_ what the ramifications were. Or she could see the most important one, anyway:

Wilson was leaving.

"Wilson," she implored, using his name to beg him without actually having to _beg_ him to stay.

In her heart, she understood that it was a useless gesture at that point. She knew that it would take _so_ much more than uttering his name to get him to stay. And that meant she had to act fast.

Fluidly, she reached down and grabbed the white bags of Malaysian takeout, her gaze never leaving the two men. Honestly at this point, she trusted neither enough to believe that one of them wouldn't try running past her while she wasn't looking.

Especially Wilson.

He looked like he was ready to bolt at the earliest opportunity.

Determination welling within her, she decided that she would be damned before giving him one.

Easily stepping through the doorway, she kicked the door shut with a slam. The clamoring noise must have echoed negatively through House's head, because he hissed loudly.

And though she felt guilty about it, she also felt justified in her behavior. The slam, though loud and annoying, was an audible way of telling them both that _no one_ was going anywhere.

"What the hell is going on here?" It was a half-question, half-accusation that she really needed no response for. After all, it was pretty clear what had happened, but she'd uttered the words anyway, hoping that it would at least get one of them to say something instead of looking at her in silence.

House spoke up first, snapping furiously at her, "Are you _senile_?" He didn't say, she noted, that she'd been late, that she'd let him down, but there was a deadly subtext to it that made her feel awful. Because although he would never _say_ that he needed her to be there, his current display of anger made it seem like that that was how he'd felt.

And she hadn't been there.

But she didn't even have time to dwell on that thought, because Wilson held his shaking fingers up in frustration. "I'm leaving. I can't –"

"_No one_ is going anywhere," she interrupted.

House scoffed. "You gonna shackle us to the couch?"

"_Shut up_." The two words were uttered through gritted teeth, the only way she knew how to convey to him that he was screwing this up – the only way to tell him (without saying the words) that, by being sarcastic, he was ruining his chances with Wilson.

Thinking about it for more than two seconds though, she realized that there was no way two words could say that much. Especially when House was in no mood to read between the lines, there was no way he understood what she was trying to tell him.

Nevertheless, it _was_ enough to quiet him down. He might have glared at her, but he wasn't railing at her as he had been doing when he got into one of his rages.

But then again, his silence left an opportunity for Wilson to insist, "You two can have your lovers' quarrel without me. I'm going home."

Cuddy jerked her head in his direction. "No, you're not."

"_Yes_ –"

"No, you're _staying_," she interrupted in an authoritative tone.

Wilson shook his head so quickly that it made her own feel as though it were spinning. "You can't keep me here."

"Well, that's true," she admitted, dropping her briefcase onto the floor unceremoniously. "But what I _can_ do is remind you of our deal. And if you want to walk out that door now, then I can't guarantee that I won't feel the same way tomorrow."

It was a threat she hadn't wanted to make. It was a threat that she could only handle herself saying by telling herself that it, actually, _wasn't_ a threat and just a reminder that reciprocation worked both ways.

Wilson, however, clearly didn't see it that way. Because even though he didn't speak, he looked at her as though he wanted to _scream_. And frankly, she could only be thankful for House's presence in that moment, because she was sure if he _weren't_ there, Wilson _would_ have shouted.

Of course, this _was_ House, and he was never content to let her appreciate him for more than a minute at a time. "You're _blackmailing_ him into talking to me?" He sounded surprised by the development he thought he saw. "That's desperate even for you."

She started to say no, but she didn't get a chance to even utter the word, her mouth left hanging open as he continued.

"What exactly is the bargaining chip here?" He pretended to consider the question himself, but Cuddy knew, even before he spoke, that he was going to mention the most repulsive thing that came to mind. "Sex? You promised to let Wilson give you a Dirty –"

"Bedroom. Now," she interrupted furiously, her words clipped and harsh.

House smiled oily, his grin like the kind you found on a used car salesman who knew when he'd found an easy mark. "Sorry, _Jimmy_. But it looks like the lady wants me to give her a ride first. Don't worry, though; I'm sure she's still good – even if she _is_ my sloppy seconds."

Cuddy glared at him as she placed the take out food on the coffee table but said nothing. He was clearly looking for a reaction from _her_, and she sure as hell wasn't going to give him one. Not when she had to physically grab Wilson's hand to stop him from leaving or killing House (she didn't know which he intended), anyway.

And she didn't really have a chance to yell either, because, for all of his talk, House started to walk down the hallway towards the bedroom.

As soon as he was far enough away to not hear her, she told Wilson, "I'm sorry."

"You should be. He's –"

"Sick and angry at me, and – "

"And none of _that_ should have anything to do with _me_," Wilson interrupted, obviously still incredibly annoyed. "I can't believe you asked me to do this. _And_ I can't believe you let him talk to you like that."

Looking in his dark eyes, she could tell that he was furious enough to need more than a few conciliatory words. The brown irises somehow blacker than they normally were, it was clear that what he needed to hear was an explanation she wasn't entirely ready to give. But she supposed she had to try, lest she accept failure over the whole endeavor now.

"Wilson… I know it's hard for you to understand. But he's not –"

"He's not what? Serious? Sane? Some combination of that?"

She would have had to be stupid to think that he was seriously asking any of those questions. The disbelief and anger were so keen in his words that there was no doubt in her mind that he wasn't going to take such excuses as being matter of fact.

So she said what should have been the most obvious thing in the world. "He's _sick_. I know you want to chalk this up to House being House, but rationally, as a doctor, surely you realize that he is _not_ a healthy man."

He looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but she didn't give him the opportunity to do that. Instead she added, "Between the skull fracture, the brain _surgery_, the seizure, _and_ the cardiac arrest, you have to admit that it's _insane_ to think that he's completely together right now. Or that he'll be fine, or would have been fine, immediately after _all _of those traumas _combined_."

She hated having to put it like that.

_Hated it_, truly, completely, absolutely _hated_ having to _see_ House like _that_… like a _victim_.

Wilson probably didn't want to think of House like that either, she realized. _Wilson_ wanted to liken House to a monster, incapable of showing even the slightest bit of remorse.

It made hating him easier.

But Cuddy didn't want to believe he was a victim of circumstance either.

She'd known House since she was practically a _child_. Maybe not in years but absolutely in _maturity,_ a little girl she had been when she'd first stumbled upon House and all of his intoxicating, infuriating, _addictive_ intelligence. And in all of that time, as much as she had joked about his insanity, as much as there had been times where she'd foolishly hurled that insult, it had _never_ been even remotely true.

Behind all of the superficial madness, there'd always been a reason; there'd always been some thread of logic for her to use as a life raft, to pull her to understanding him and his motives. Sometimes it drove her _nuts_ to be left grappling for that rationality, the undertow of doubt somehow always threatening to carry her off. But no matter how much he seemed to try to push her away, no matter how hard she tried to shrug him off, she had always _eventually_ seen it.

She'd _always_ found the logic behind his diagnoses and actions. In some ways, her certainty in him, in his abilities, which clearly exceeded her certainty in herself and her _own_ talents, left her feeling breathless, left her feeling as though the world had lurched onto new axes. He was _so_ smart, so… _intuitive_ that she never felt and _always_ felt, paradoxically enough, reassured by that power.

And though she didn't doubt that he would recover (she _refused_ to believe he wouldn't), it scared her that _anything _so… overwhelmingly impressive and large could be harmed.

Though she could feel Wilson's gaze on her, she was not, at that moment, compelled to think of anything other than a very distant memory. _Long_ before she'd met House, she'd been a schoolgirl forced to write a report on Einstein. The particulars, of course, were no longer in her consciousness; how old she'd been, the length of the essay, or if she'd been forced to recite the report to the class were details she'd long since forgotten.

Cuddy remembered the color ink she'd used to write the stupid thing. Maybe that was a little bizarre, but since the brilliantly blue ink had been smudged to the point of illegibility, and she'd received demerits for it, as a result, it was hard to forget that fact. That her left wrist and palm had been dyed said color as well had only cemented that part of the memory in her mind.

Which was a shame, because she had a hunch that what she'd written had been some of the most beautiful prose she'd ever managed to put to paper. Again, the details had slipped through the cracks of her memory years ago; she'd had more important things to remember over the years anyway, but she vaguely recalled talking about Einstein's aestheticism ultimately limiting his abilities to understand the implications of his own theories, limiting his abilities to understand the _world_ around him.

She must have been in high school at the time, she decided, because she remembered deriding him for that… which her teacher might or might not have also penalized her for; Cuddy didn't know.

But she _did_ know that Einstein had dismissed the existence of black holes for their ugliness, for the way they turned his beautiful theories into something that held a potent amount of inevitable degeneration. He didn't like the idea of something as splendid as a star slowly dying in on itself, only to collapse into an entity only capable of destruction.

And at the time, she'd sort of understood his feelings behind that… but not really. The way she saw it, the stars diminishing, the universe decaying… was a sad reality, sure. But it was a reality nonetheless, and no amount of denying the truth could alter that.

Now, though… she could understand all too well his willingness to ignore that truth. Her problem might not have had anything to do with the universe. But believing that House's gift, which had been a part of her life for so long, could be taken away so easily terrified her.

Of course, some might say that, if it had required a skull fracture, a seizure, a heart attack, and a surgery, then it hadn't been easy to destroy his genius.

But that was precisely how it seemed to her.

And probably to _House_ as well, because it wasn't like there'd really been a way to avoid any of it. He couldn't have predicted the bus accident; he couldn't have predicted the damage caused by the deep brain stimulation. He probably _should_ have anticipated _some_ sort of negative effect, sure, but this was far worse than even Cuddy herself had imagined. And besides his mind, when working at its best, wouldn't have allowed for him to leave a question unanswered anyway, so really, he'd _only_ had the option to pursue the matter in the way that he had. There'd been no way to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable.

From the second he got on that bus, all roads pointed them to _this_, to where they were now.

And it was hard – _impossible_ – for Cuddy to understand how such a thing could be possible. Her entire being tried to rally against that fact, the hand clasped around Wilson's forearm instinctively gripping him tighter.

The motion clearly grabbed his attention, because at that moment, he pulled her from her thoughts. "I don't care if he's _sick_. I _care_ about the things he says about _you_. And you can't tell me that the things he's been saying don't hurt –"

"I'm not saying that it's been _easy_ for me," she interrupted, knowing exactly where he was headed. "Am I annoyed by what he said? Yes. Do I wish that his personality were one that allowed for traumatic brain injuries? _Of course_. The last two months would have been a lot easier for me if he weren't such a stubborn son of a bitch to begin with. I _know_."

She sounded more frustrated than she wanted to. Truth be told, she was more annoyed by Wilson trying to be her big brother than what House had said. However, she realized that Wilson was unlikely to understand that. Not that she really wanted to say, "You're the problem at the moment," obviously, but she silently squirmed at her apparent inability to choose her words more carefully.

"But you want me to be his friend?" Wilson looked at her confused, and she knew she had to regroup herself.

Her lips pursed together for a moment, the small action giving her a few seconds to consider what she wanted to say. "I want you to talk to him. I want you to listen to him – to what he has to say. The _last_ thing I want is for you to fight my battles for me," she told him in a firm voice.

She hoped he could appreciate how deeply she felt about the matter.

However, Cuddy figured that it was better to reiterate her feelings a little more than to under prepare him in the same way she'd apparently done with House on this conversation.

"He's being mean to me?" She shrugged. "Let it _go_. He and I have our own issues that have nothing to do with you." Realizing that that sounded mean though, she added immediately, "That I don't want you to get involved with."

But that didn't exactly make things better.

Because Wilson asked, "Why not?" He was evidently more curious than incensed, though she could hear the beginnings of offense in his tone. So she knew she had to answer carefully.

"You have so much going on," she explained simply… ineffectively. "And I get that you want to help me, but what's happening between me and House… it's not something you should waste your time on."

To be completely honest, Cuddy didn't exactly want to waste her _own_ time on House's crap either. But she didn't have the same option to avoid it completely like Wilson did.

Not anymore anyway.

The time to extract herself from House's madness had long since past for her. And even if she'd decided to change that _today_, there'd still be no avoiding finding a resolution to the fight they were having now.

Sighing, she pulled herself from her thoughts and said calmly, "He's mad at me. I should be the one to handle that – not you." But that almost made it seem like she didn't _trust_ Wilson to address the situation, which clearly wasn't going to make him feel better.

She reassuringly squeezed his arm then, hoping the gesture would convey to him that she didn't mean to sound so derogatory towards him. And if it didn't, she went the extra distance by apologizing. One of her hands wiping her forehead, she groaned, "I'm sorry. Every thing I'm saying is just making things worse, and I'm really _not_ trying to hurt you or write you off."

Oddly enough, Wilson seemed to respond to that admittance. Whether it was the apology itself or the fact that maybe he was finally getting a sense of how she was feeling, the reason behind his behavior was one she didn't know. But whatever the motivation, he did seem to calm down.

The set of his shoulders seemed to ease a little, the harsh lines of his body softening infinitesimally. And she took advantage of his slightly relaxed state to say, "I just want you to focus on what you need to say to him. Please don't worry about me."

He nodded his head in understanding, though he didn't seem to really appreciate the sentiment behind her words.

That wasn't hard to understand, really. He was so uninterested in House at this point that she knew it was hard, if not outright impossible, for Wilson to get why it was important for her to handle House on her own.

"You're sure?" His eyes searched her for reassurance.

Her immediate response was to cup one of his cheeks gently. As much as she took him for granted, there were times – moments like the one she was having right now – where Wilson's sweetness was undeniable. The warm apple of his cheek soft beneath her palm, there was no denying that his gentleness concealed beautifully the strength within him. He was supportive in the best of ways; he would accept her decision now without issue.

But he would also without question beat the hell out of House right now if she told him to. Honestly, Wilson would do almost _anything_ for her, she discovered at that second. And if he hadn't in the past, she suddenly realized that that had had everything to with her _not_ asking him. All this time she'd just assumed that they weren't close, because they never really did much for one another.

Yet now she could see that _she'd_ kept him at bay by never truly allowing him access to her. He'd probably always been willing to help her, she thought. But out of respect for her, for her independence, he'd restrained himself. Any other woman he probably would have helped a million ways by now, but he'd allowed her to make the choices and mistakes she'd felt were so important to make on her own out of respect for her wishes.

Out of respect for _her_.

And between that and the earnestness in his eyes, Cuddy couldn't help but feel guilty for asking him to talk to House. It was the right thing to do for all of them, of course – _God_, it was the right thing. But that didn't make her feel any less unworthy of Wilson's friendship at that moment.

Conversely, she'd never found _House_ less deserving of her friendship than she did right now. And deciding to focus on that – on her _anger_ instead of her guilt, she nodded her head. "Believe me, I have no problem with handling House on my own." There was a hint of a threat in her voice, her indignation over the things House had said beginning to let itself be known. "Please keep that separate from what you need to do right now with him."

Wilson responded tartly, "Maybe you should remind_ him_ of that."

She smiled at him, understanding that the coolness in his words was meant for the one who was no longer in the room. "I'm on it," she said eagerly.

That said, she started to walk away from Wilson and towards the hallway. Her body was already tensing for a fight with House, but she'd barely taken three steps away from Wilson before stopping. In all of her eagerness to deal with the _real_ problem here, she'd almost forgotten to play her last card in getting Wilson to stay.

Turning back to him, she asked, "Would you mind getting plates for the food while I disembowel House?" He nodded his head dutifully but said nothing. And she liked that, because his silence allowed her to entice him further. "I know I probably should have come here after work straight away – especially after I noticed your parking space empty."

She hoped the implicit apology meant something to him. But since that wasn't exactly her point, she redirected herself and her words. "I just figured that, given the time, we could all eat something… and since I don't have the same culinary abilities you do, I stopped by the Malaysian place on Nassau."

He appeared to be almost touched by the thought; after all, it was one of his favorite restaurants to eat at. "You didn't have to do that…"

But in her heart, she felt that she actually _did_ have to make that extra bit of effort. "It's the least I could do. The way I see it, if you're going to come over here and talk to House, then really, it's not too much to ask for a decent meal."

One of his hands in the air, he halted her from moving towards the bedroom; clearly he wanted her to know that the conversation wasn't over. "But you didn't _get_ a 'decent meal,'" he pointed out suspiciously. "You went to one of my favorite restaurants, a restaurant that _House_ isn't a fan of."

"And I got the braised duck," she pointed out confidently, sliding that bit of information into the conversation with a smile.

His face scrunched up in confusion. "You think setting a duck in front of me is going to make me happy?" Before she could answer, Wilson added, "I mean, _yes_, it might be the best cooked bird in the state, but… _that's_ reaching, even for you."

Cuddy didn't think it was though. She'd eaten with him at that restaurant before, and from start to finish, the meal had been punctuated by his colorful praise for the food. He might have been playing it cool now, but she'd _seen_ him laud the duck dish as though it were his own baby taking her first steps.

Besides, although she didn't _like_ this fact, she was sure that, in the last two months, Wilson had had very little help. He might have gotten some sympathy from Cameron, but with her relationship with Chase in jeopardy, that was surely over by now. And the end result was that Wilson was lonely, desperate for support from any place he could reasonably get it, and Malaysian take out was admittedly not all that much.

But it was something.

It was proof that she knew him well enough to know his favorite foods, to consider his needs.

And she knew that he saw it that way. Even though he was writing her efforts off out loud, she believed he was secretly pleased that she'd taken him into consideration.

"Not just the duck, no," she said carefully. I also got the honey squid and the –"

"And that's still supposed to make me happy?" He was more curious about her reason than offended, but she could tell that if she weren't careful about her explanation, that would very well change.

She shrugged. "I'm just trying to be nice and –"

"Nice? Since when does this group do nice?"

It was a joke… or at least, she wanted to believe that it was. Something in the tone of his voice told her that it would be foolish to write his questions off completely, despite the rather jovial manner in which they'd been asked.

"I know it's… stupid. But I knew that this was going to be hard for you. And any way I could make it easier – I'm not saying that good food will make this simple for you or… _fun_. I just wanted to give you as _many_ reasons as I could to stay. To see this conversation with House through."

Wilson nodded his head but apparently couldn't resist asking, "And what reasons are you going to give House?"

She cocked her head a little. She hadn't really thought about what she was going to say to House in the bedroom. But maybe that was because she didn't exactly need to. "I don't know; I was thinking something along the lines of, 'Go talk to Wilson or I'm going to _neuter_ you' as incentive number one."

Smirking Wilson said, "I think that _might_ work."

She smiled. "Don't go anywhere." As soon as he nodded his head, she finished the trek to the bedroom, and the difference between the mood in this part of the apartment and the room she'd just left was impossible to miss.

Where as Wilson had at least been conversational, House was clearly in no mood to talk; he was lying on the bed, half of his face buried in his pillow. His gaze completely on the black and white rabbit (who should _not_ have been on the bed), he wasn't even acknowledging her presence much less speaking to her.

But frankly, Cuddy was more than okay with that. Right now the last thing he needed to do was _talk_, and he certainly didn't need to do that in order for _her_ to yell at him.

As she stalked towards his closet, she snarled, "I'm guessing that this is a rhetorical question, but do you have _any_ idea how badly you're screwing this up?" Yanking the closet door open, she added, "Or are you _so_ brain _damaged_ or pissed at _me_ that you don't get what the hell is at stake right now?"

He said nothing.

And although sanity dictated that she change in the bathroom, at the moment, her judgment was too clouded by anger for her to think about what she was doing.

It wasn't that she somehow forgot that House was _there_. Indeed, it was _impossible_ to miss his presence in her life, no matter how much she might have wanted to. But the fact was her skirt was too tight, the waist band digging into her skin, and she was too itchy and uncomfortable with fury, and all she really wanted to do was rip her clothes off and strangle him and….

She growled in frustration, her shaking fingers fumbling with the zipper of her skirt. She felt like a pot of water that had been left to boil for too long. She felt like her anger was searing her body in the same way a hand over a hot burner would instantly twinge from the heat.

And it was _stupid_ – so incredibly, _uselessly_ dumb – to allow her anger to suddenly get the better of her. After all this time, after all of the time spent restraining herself, part of Cuddy knew that it was self-defeating to allow herself to lose it now… to lose it when everything she'd worked so hard for could _easily_ fall into place.

Yanking her skirt past her hips with enough force to make a couple threads rip, she said, "I get that in your _head_, I've done something horribly wrong. I don't know what that could be, but obviously you think it's worth punishing me for the next week and a half. To you, it's apparently worth _ruining_ this opportunity you have with Wilson – the opportunity you won't get another shot at if you don't start behaving like an _adult_."

Cuddy kicked her skirt to the side and started looking around the small closet for the clothes she'd haphazardly stuffed in there only a few days earlier. She'd been fighting with House then too, and at the time, she'd been too concerned with _him_ to pay much attention to note where she was putting her pants.

Naturally, there was also the possibility that House had moved things around out of spite and that, even if she _had_ been paying attention at the time, it wouldn't have done any good.

But she didn't get a chance to accuse him of childish trickery, because he suddenly and unexpectedly spoke up, "Interesting."

She turned her half-naked body away from the closet to give him a glare he never saw; his attention was still on the bunny, who was currently trying to eat her pillowcase. "What are you –"

"None of this has remotely anything to do with you, and yet you're making it _all_ about you. That's pretty impressive," he said condescendingly.

Which, of course, renewed the anger within her. Not that it had really dissipated, she conceded, but hearing him say that and then add, "Your skills at narcissism truly are one of a kind," only made her ire grow to such an exponential degree that she felt as though she had never experienced true fury until this moment.

"_Right_. This is _all_ in my head," she snapped in disbelief. "Why don't you _look_ at me and suggest that?"

He didn't.

And she was about to compare him to a little boy who couldn't lie to Mommy when he told her scathingly, "Why don't _you_ put on some clothes and _then_ have this conversation with me?"

The suggestion stopped her in her tracks.

Whatever she might have said, however she might have been feeling – it all died within her as House's curious remarks washed over her. And she thought that that metaphor worked pretty damn well right about now, because House verbally telling her to put on clothes felt as though someone had thrown a large bucket of cold water on her.

A bucket of cold, _sewer_ water, she corrected dismally.

Her gaze instinctively snapping towards the shelves in the closet, she fumbled to find some pants. To no avail, even as he said disapprovingly, "I get it. Everyone gets it. I've seen you _naked_, and everyone else on the eastern seaboard has gotten a couple eyefuls every now and then too. We _know_. You're hot. Now put it away and try something new."

He was being completely serious. His tones were even, filled with disdain, leaving no doubt in her mind about the sincerity of his words.

The reality of the situation had her reeling, a fact that she was almost ashamed to admit. It shouldn't have been so mind boggling for her to know that someone found her unattractive and desperate for attention. God, it _really_ shouldn't have been so upsetting to know that _House_ thought those things about her, because it only confirmed that she was as self-centered as he'd said she was. And worse still, it made no sense for her to care about _his_ opinion.

But _damn it_, she _did_ care.

She _was_ bothered and confused and taken aback.

And she loathed herself for all of it, but there was no denying that his attempts to hurt her were working.

Her hand _finally_ hitting a pair of jeans and a sweater that belonged to her, she quickly changed. Although she would have liked to use getting dressed as a way of delaying the rest of this conversation, Cuddy knew that she couldn't do that. House would either see it as an attempt to entice him or correctly see it as a diversion for herself. And on top of that, Wilson still had to be dealt with, so she changed as fast as she knew how.

"All right," she said, as she pulled her short-sleeved sweater down over her bra. "Since your foul mood clearly cannot wait until after you talk to Wilson, lets get this over with now."

She stalked towards House's side of the bed, her arms folded across her chest. But he didn't turn to look at her; he just kept focusing on that damn rabbit, whose presence she was beginning to despise… even as some part of her was secretly glad that he'd warmed up to the idea of having a pet.

Snottily she demanded to know, trying to prompt him into speaking, "Well?"

He didn't move but asked, "Well what?"

"Tell me what's going on with you. Explain to me what it is that you _think_ I did wrong, so that I can apologize and we can move forward."

Finally, House rolled over with something she read as hatred in his eyes. "It's not exactly an apology I want to accept if you're not even willing to believe that you did something wrong."

She shook her head. "That's not what –"

"Oh, that's _exactly_ what you said," he interrupted knowingly. "You wanted me to explain to you what I – and I quote – '_thought'_ you did wrong. If you actually believed that you'd screwed up, you a). wouldn't need me to explain what you did wrong, and b). wouldn't say 'thought' in that sentence."

It was so ridiculous that she almost wanted to laugh at him. His mind was so messed up; the way he thought about things was _messed up_.

But then again, he was never unaware of subtle tells – nor was he incapable of using those tells to his advantage. And more than laughing, what she really wanted to do at this point was bash her head against the wall until her eyes popped out. _That_ would definitely be less painful than this conversation.

"Just tell me what I did wrong," she told him through gritted teeth.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"_Yes_."

"_No_." She was about to snap her requisite one word response, but he didn't allow for that by adding, "And if you say yes one more time, I'm never going to tell you anything. _Ever_."

Her mouth snapped shut with an abruptness that made her imagine a clicking sound to accompany the motion.

Truth be told, Cuddy had no desire to remain quiet, much less drop the subject matter. But the fact was that House clearly meant every word that he was saying; if she annoyed him any more than she already had, he would never tell her what was wrong. And yes, there was something appealing about that; she couldn't deny that. But if she irritated him into silence, then he would never explain to her what her crime had been, and if he never did that, then he would probably never forgive her for it either.

It sounded insane, even to her own ears. That she could be punished for something she'd never done, for something she didn't even know she'd done was _insane_.

Then again, this was House, and as rational as he could be, there were moments where rationality and fairness were two nouns he steered clear of.

All of it meant that she had to proceed carefully… which was the story of her life, it seemed; tread around both of these men, lest she upset one of them and destroy the fragile balance only _she_ seemed interested in maintaining. These days, that was all she did, all she thought about and all she considered when deciding what to do.

And it was impossible to deny that she was becoming very resentful of that fact. She didn't want to believe that that was true, but it was: she was becoming tired of being consumed by doing everything for House and Wilson and getting no results from it.

But at the same time, Cuddy understood two things. One, she knew that her current position had been completely of her own doing. Wilson had wanted her to go to Amber's funeral, to take care of _him_, but he probably wouldn't have forced Cuddy to choose a side if she'd better managed her time. And House hadn't wanted her anywhere near at the time, so it wasn't his fault either. So really, she could only blame herself for being in this position.

And in addition to that, she understood that, although she'd failed to get results in the past, today could very well end differently.

How many times had she already told herself that today?

Casually she wondered about that; _frustrated_, she wondered how many more times she would need to say it before something would actually _happen_.

One, ten, a _million_ – she didn't really have any idea.

But that there was any hope of a resolution today at all gave her the resolve to calm down. It wasn't a quick thing, obviously; House had gotten her too riled up for her mood to return to anything close to understanding in a short period of time. And it didn't help that his bright, accusing eyes were trained on her carefully, those brilliant blue irises watching her to see what she would do. If anything his insistent, obnoxious interest in her only served to make her feel more unnerved, more disgusted by his constant desire to view her in the most dispassionate and scientific way possible.

She _did_ calm down, however. It might have been done slowly and by sheer force of will, but it _did_ happen.

And once that had occurred, she was able to reach out to House. One of her hand resting warmly on his back, she told him in a gentle voice, "I can't make this better if you don't tell me what I did wrong."

But the way House saw it, she should have _already_ understood what the problem was. He'd been getting pissy with her for days over the same things essentially, and if she weren't smart enough to figure out what was bothering him, he doubted she ever would. And really, why should _he_ have to go through the humiliation of explaining his issue with her, because she _refused_ to learn?

Cuddy would never see it that way though. She would continue to stand there and whine and allude to the fact that she didn't think she'd done anything wrong, and House was pretty sure that listening to her _yap_ would only make the ringing in his ear that much worse. So he supposed that, if only to spare him more suffering, he had to talk to her, let her know what was bothering him.

For a brief moment, he considered lying. He could easily make something up….

Or not, because he surprisingly couldn't think of anything to use as a convincing lie. His mind was just drawing a complete blank.

And he didn't blame that on his insomnia or the tinnitus or anything else that was physically wrong with him. He could have, he guessed, but honestly, he was more convinced that it was Wilson's presence and Cuddy's insistence that was giving him a little performance anxiety.

That was something he would need to overcome before talking to Wilson, House realized. Although he didn't necessarily _intend_ to lie to the man sitting on his couch, House knew that the truth wouldn't be a guaranteed way to get a proper invitation back into Wilson's life.

That brief conversation they'd had had told House that, more than anything, Wilson had come here to hear a specific version of events. He didn't agree to come to House's apartment to hear the _truth_. He didn't want to listen to the way House had struggled the last two months, nor did he want to see House cry over Amber's death. Wilson might have wanted to hear House's regrets, but he definitely didn't want to listen to someone essentially beg for pity either.

He would want emotion but not _too much_.

And House was willing to play that part. If it killed him, he thought he would give Wilson what he wanted, what he _thought_ he wanted.

House would do that for Wilson, for the sake of the friendship they once shared. House would willingly, _eagerly_ do whatever he had to to make things right.

But then, he hadn't been properly prepared to perform that tightrope walk. Cuddy had just sprung this crap on him, and he'd been expected to just be ready.

But he _wasn't_.

At all. And he could get himself there if he tried, but in order to do that, he would need some time to ready himself.

And the only way to get the time he needed was to tell Cuddy what was wrong.

Again, he supposed a lie would allow him to bide his time as well; however, he was too distracted to come up with a good lie, and she would leave the room, knowing that what he was saying was false. And then he would be forced to confront the Wilson issue before he was ready. So really, he had no choice but to tell her the truth.

Shrugging her sympathetic hand off of him, House accused, "Stop being a tease."

Her eyebrows raised in confusion immediately. "Excuse me?"

"You're being a tease," he said gruffly with an eye roll to also hint at his irritation over having to repeat himself. "Stop it."

But she still wasn't understanding. "I'm not being a –"

"Yes, you are." His voice was firm, and for extra conviction, he added, "And you can say you're not, but I _know_ you are. Times infinity."

_Some_ individuals might have considered adding that last part to be immature, but in House's opinion, he was simply being thorough. Childish or not, they would have absolutely gone through a series of "No, I'm not" and "Yes, you are" if allowed; he was just preempting that as best as he could.

To no real success.

"I'm not –"

"You _are_," he insisted angrily.

She folded her arms across her chest once more. "How am I being a tease? _Please_ let me know how you've come to _that_ conclusion."

"You think I'm lying?"

"What _I_ think is that I'm not a tease, and if you're going to say that I am – or that I have been – you should give some examples," she replied with acid practically dripping off of each word.

"You just changed in front of me. Actually, you stood in front of me in your little polka dot _thong_, demanding I look at you. You don't think that's –"

"That's different," she interrupted insistently. "I was angry and distracted, and it wasn't like you were _watching_ me."

The remark almost made him smile.

_Almost_.

Ever since he'd gotten angry with her two days ago, she'd been trying to get his attention; her current dissatisfaction was proof of that, and it was borderline amusing how desperate she was to get it, to have him acknowledge her in that way.

But where the whole thing fell short for _him_ was in her follow through. She wanted his attention, but she didn't want anything more. She wanted the credit for getting Wilson here, but she obviously hadn't wanted to be around for the nitty gritty – or else she would have come straight home instead of going out to get take out. And she definitely wanted to be the one responsible for House getting better, but as soon as he'd seemed even remotely better, she'd checked out as quickly as she could; she might have been coming back here each night, but it was just a matter of time before she stopped doing that.

And in his mind, all of that amounted to someone who was a complete and utter _tease_.

"Oh, well, then that's completely different," he told her sarcastically. "Now, you're not just a tease but an ineffective one."

She still seemed taken aback by the entire accusation, but she had the good nature to reply snottily, "If I were ineffective, I don't think you'd be complaining about it."

"So then you admit you're being one."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement… though she clearly took it as one. "Of course not, and I'm not going to until you give me _proof_."

Honestly, it was the last thing he wanted to do. To have to list out all of those instances where he'd felt like she was promising more, where he'd _almost_ believed she would be there for him only to have her fail him or reject him… it was humiliating.

And the conversation they were beginning to have wasn't even the one that he wanted.

He didn't want to have to justify his feelings, didn't want to have to _prove_ what he was saying. Nor did he want to have a fight with her over this.

All he wanted was an apology.

Scratch that, he thought almost immediately. He was willing to forego the apology if she were willing to let him know exactly what she planned on doing with him. More than anything, it was not knowing when she would leave him, when she would decide to take that step away from him, that concerned him.

The way things were now, he had no control over any of it. Not that he wanted to – or planned – on forcing her to stay, obviously. But he thought that if he knew what was going on in her head, if he knew when to expect her to pull away from him, it would be so much easier for him to adjust to.

And why did he need to prove to _her_ that she was being wishy washy and brazenly insensitive to what _he_ needed from her? Why couldn't she just accept the premise of the argument like anyone else would have (anyone else who had the same guilt complex that she had, anyway)?

Frustrated, he said, "I don't need to prove anything to _you_."

She appeared to be shocked by the almost sudden outburst of anger, which was funny, because of all the things she probably should have been used to by now….

But she quickly recovered. Licking her lips, she told him in a calm, low voice, "Please talk to me. I don't know what I did, and I need you to tell me." Her words were carefully uttered, spoken with such precision and timing that it seemed as though she were afraid of upsetting him.

That effort was negated though by one of her hands reaching out to him. Her fingertips carding through his unkempt hair, it was practically a miracle that her fingers weren't lost in the unwashed strands. And if they had, it would have served her right for _once again_ doing exactly what he was accusing her of.

"This," he said suddenly, loudly. "_This_ is my problem."

Her brow knitted in confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about." Shaking her head a little, she started to ask, "What am I doing?"

She sounded sincere, but he offered her no answer. He figured it would be better if she were to figure it out on her own; it would be less embarrassing for him, less of a bruise to his ego – though it would still suck, he thought grimly.

"Touching you?" The suggestion slipped out of her mouth with about as much grace as he would have on an ice skating rink. "I don't understand."

"I'm _not_ spelling it out for you."

"Well, you're going to have to," she replied eagerly. "I don't know if this is just a game to you or if you're really hoping I'll suddenly understand. But either way, I don't know what it is that I'm supposed to see, so you're going to have to tell me." When he didn't say anything, she added, "If you want an apology, then I need to know what it is that I'm apologizing for."

He let out a rough exhale. The knowledge that she wasn't going to figure it out for herself was making him feel like a balloon with too much air in it, and unfortunately for him, the feeling didn't dissipate after forcing out all the oxygen in his lungs.

He didn't really expect it to. Being ready to burst with air might have been the proper metaphor, but it wasn't what was going on inside of his body.

What _was_ happening inside of him was something completely mental. Synapses might have been going off in his brain, but for the most part, it was not a physical event; feeling the impulse to explode with revelation was _not_ physical.

But it almost seemed that way.

What he was feeling wasn't precisely a Pavlovian response, but he couldn't deny that explaining the puzzle was rote. He'd done it for years – solved the case and then gone through the rather satisfying process of taking his colleagues, his patients, and everyone else involved from point A to B.

Maybe it should have been boring for House, especially since he _despised_ explaining himself.

But it wasn't.

If only because taking a moron through the differential step by step was proof that _he_ was smart, House liked it. Having never claimed honorable intentions, he didn't care that he sounded like an egotistical dick. He _was_, and if he were saving lives in the process, what did that really matter? Certainly, as long as he _kept_ saving lives, no one would care.

But this – what he was tempted to tell Cuddy now – was different.

_Very_ different.

Explaining to her that he was… _terrified_ at the prospect of her leaving was not satisfying. It didn't make him feel smart, didn't soothe or stroke his ego. If anything, doing that would make him feel like a complete jackass, like a _weakling_. And what was even hoping to get in return?

Really, did he expect an apology? Did he expect that apology to make him all warm and fuzzy inside? Did he _really_ think that the words, "I'm sorry," and a false promise to stay would make anything better for him?

No.

On all counts, his answer was a resounding no. He didn't expect her to be sorry, much less to actually say it. And on the off chance that she did apologize, he didn't expect it to mean anything to him; he might have wanted her to be contrite, but he was too much of a pessimist to believe that he would respond well to it. To be perfectly honest, he wanted the apology, but he knew all too well that he would doubt her sincerity, that he would allow those doubts to remove any good that could come from this conversation.

And yet…

The need to delineate precisely what it was that was upsetting him lived and breathed within him.

It wouldn't make him smart, wouldn't make him feel better in any way, shape, or form. Which he _knew_ intuitively, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself to shut up about that long enough to force Cuddy from the room.

And knowing that, House actually contemplated reconsidering his assertion that there wasn't a physical mechanism involved in all of this. Because from where he was standing (or laying), it was hardly a logical _choice _on his part. If anything, he just felt programmed to say exactly what he ended up telling her.

"On the phone, you said you would be here," he reminded her.

Cuddy nodded her head in agreement. "I know."

"You _weren't_."

The look on her face was some hybrid between sympathy and incredulity. She didn't say anything immediately, but she didn't really need to; it was clear from the way her features moved that she didn't know if she should be telling him that she was sorry or defending herself against the attack she was sure would come.

In the end, she apparently decided that a combination was what he needed to hear. Her fat ass sitting itself on the bed and rubbing up against him, her hands were back on him; one was on the back of his neck, her fingertips lightly touching his hair, the other clasped around his t-shirted bicep. "I'm here," she told him quietly but firmly. "I –"

"You were _late_."

He didn't mean for the accusation to sound so… pathetic. He didn't mean to make _himself_ sound pathetic, he corrected. But there was no denying that he did sound precisely like that.

How could he not though?

He was taking issue with Cuddy's absence; he was essentially saying, "You weren't there for me," and if that weren't childish and lame, he didn't know what was.

"I know," she said gently, the hand on his arm squeezing him lightly. "I'm sorry. I should have budgeted my time better, but I thought I could be back before Wilson got here. _And_ I thought you could handle –"

"Don't blame me," he snapped bitterly. "You said you would be here. You weren't. That's not _my_ fault."

He was audibly becoming more infuriated and upset by this conversation, which wasn't exactly what he wanted; it was one thing to _be_ upset, another entirely to _show_ it. And considering she wasn't emotional about this at all, it felt even more wrong for him to be the opposite.

Her even voice a stark contrast to the tempest within him, she said, "I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm merely trying to tell you that I thought you would be okay with Wilson by yourself for a while. I didn't –"

"You didn't think I was going to screw it up like I did," he finished miserably.

"_No_. That's not what I'm saying. I'm –"

"It is," he asserted loudly, gesturing with his chin. "You _said_ I was screwing things up with Wilson. When you first came in here, that's what you _wailed_ about."

Her gaze was cast upwards, as though she were praying (if she were the praying sort) for some supernatural strength to deal with him. And when that clearly didn't work, she went for a peevish reply of "I didn't wail. I _yelled_. There's a difference. _And_," she said hastily, apparently taking note of the way he opened his mouth to respond to that. "You still have plenty of time to make things right with Wilson. If you would stop wasting your time by accusing me of being a tease and –"

"My _God_, you're an idiot," he said derisively, in a way that said he was _almost_ surprised at her limitations as an upright being capable of complicated thought processes. "Do I _really_ need to walk you through it?"

He could see her jaw clench in frustration, and it was no surprise that her reply was a terse, carefully parsed, "Apparently… since I _obviously _don't know what you're talking about."

Scowling, he realized that it was do or die, tell her precisely what was going on or completely bullshit his way out of this mess. And somehow he knew that the latter was no longer an option, so he really only had that choice to tell her what his problem was.

"My _point_," he furiously argued in clipped tones. "Is that you said you would be here. You've been _saying_ that you'll be _here_, but –"

"And I will be here," she interrupted in a reassuring voice. The hand on his neck moved down his back, her fingertips rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. "I'll be here as long as you need me, House. I have no intention of leaving you alone before you're ready."

Not knowing what to say, House became quiet. He wasn't sure if she were just responding to his words on instinct or if she had some deeper understanding as to what he was trying to tell her. Whether she was simply saying what first came to mind or if she realized what it was he was asking for.

No, he thought immediately, it couldn't have been the latter. House himself had no idea what it was he was asking for, so it was impossible for _her_ to know.

But in any case, no matter the motivation, no matter his confusion, he found himself taking comfort in what she was saying nonetheless.

He didn't really _like_ that fact, of course. As much as he might have wanted to hear what she was saying, there was something incredibly… shameful about actually allowing himself to believe her words.

It made him feel weak… made him feel dependent on her in a way he hadn't really been before now.

Or maybe that wasn't the right way to put it. Rationally he understood that nothing had really changed; he was as dependent on her as he'd ever been. He was no more or less in her debt because of it. And if anything, with her returning to work, with her assuming he could bathe himself and wipe his own ass, House realized that he was probably more in charge of his life now than he'd been in what seemed like a very long time.

But at the same time, this felt different, like a new stage in this whole drama. For the last two months, he could have very easily claimed that he'd had no say in whether or not Cuddy stayed. Honestly, he'd _had_ no choice in the matter, her presence one he'd willed away and tried to escape to no avail.

Now though… it seemed like she'd given him all the control over this situation. She'd said that she would be there as long as he needed her. And he'd essentially said, though in not as many words, that he'd been uncomfortable with the prospect of her leaving.

Or maybe he hadn't; he supposed it really depended on where Cuddy was coming from in her response.

He _also_ figured that he could let the whole thing slide and see whatever meaning he wanted to in her words. Yet he wasn't satisfied with that, and immediately he rejected that notion. Substituting an interpretation of her reaction for a truth he'd been too lazy to find was not in his nature. And as painful as the reality could be, as much as she might not have meant what she was saying (or been oblivious to her meaning), he had to know exactly where she was coming from.

He just _had_ to _know_.

And without any hesitation, he decided that the best way to derive the truth was to push her further.

Craning his head so he could look over his shoulder to see her, House asked cruelly, "Do you think that means something to me?"

She didn't say anything at first. Her gaze trained on his, it was obvious that she was trying to put the puzzle pieces in front of her together. Her eyes had that far off look, the kind a person had when they were trying to figure out what was actually going on, after all; being a diagnostician, House was more than a little familiar with the way a person looked when they were trying to understand what was happening around them.

He saw it all the time, which was why he was pretty confident that she would never figure it out. Cuddy might not have been a complete moron, her ability to hit on, even by mistake, the issue that plagued him proof of that. But he'd been unintentionally careful enough to only give her the slightest amount of information, and he was sure she would need more to understand what was going on.

However, he was clearly wrong.

_So_ wrong.

Because then she looked at him, her mouth parting slightly as realization seemed to hit her. As realization and disbelief hit her, he readily amended. Because watching her, he could see the doubt in her eyes. He could identify the uncertainty that lingered in her gaze and controlled her voice.

The shock came as no surprise, frankly. This _was_ him, after all, and he knew she must have been surprised and suspicious of him; this was something he didn't ordinarily do – say, or even roughly imply, that he needed her company. Truth be told, he was still unsure of that fact himself, unable to reconcile it himself even though he'd been the one to do it. And so it was not surprising to see that emotion reflected in someone else.

Nor was it all that shocking for her to turn smug when she failed to detect any dishonesty on his behalf.

The second she seemed to feel as though it weren't a ruse, her lips turned upward in an arrogant smirk. And she said knowingly, "I think it does. _I_ think you really _are_ upset that I wasn't here earlier, and now that I think about it…"

She closed her mouth briefly to mentally slide another puzzle piece into place. He decided that she must have liked the mental image she saw – or at least was quick to believe the mosaic in her front of her – as her smirk evolved into an enormous grin.

"You've been mad at me since I returned to work." Her head shaking a little, she was deducing far more than he intended.

And she didn't stop there.

"You didn't want me to go," she said in a voice that sounded absolutely shocked. "Which is why you called my office several times when I first went back. You _wanted_ me to be concerned for you. You _wanted_ me to think that I couldn't possibly leave you alone, because you were too weak or too much of an ass to be alone."

Her hand no longer rubbing circles along his back, she was clearly beyond interested in consoling him anymore. Now that she seemed to understand how long he'd been playing her, she didn't seem quite so friendly. Especially when she realized, "That's why you chased Cassandra away… so I wouldn't have anyone to watch you, so that I would be obligated to stay home from work, where you weren't letting me get any work done _anyway_, to keep an eye on you."

"That would make a lot more sense if you actually _had_ stayed home," he pointed out, instinctively trying to weasel his way out of this.

He might have been the one to instigate this entire conversation, and because of that, he supposed that his discomfort was really his fault. Actually, he felt that it was wrong to even _feel_ uncomfortable about the whole thing _because_ he'd been the one to bring it up.

But he was nothing if not sick and confused and only ever willing to go so far with Cuddy. He refused to go so far as to say that he was afraid of intimacy, because that was such a girly thing to believe, but he supposed that diagnosis fit as well.

Not that it really mattered; Cuddy was able to see past the misdirection anyway. "Doesn't mean you weren't trying."

She paused but only for a second. He wanted to point out the flaw in her logic, but he barely had enough time to open his mouth before she started speaking once more. "In _fact_, I'm going to go ahead and guess that that's why you got mad at me when we were on the couch. Because that was when I told you I was going to go to work the next morning, and you _knew_ your little plan hadn't succeeded."

"Yeah, that sounds exactly like me," he said, forcing the doubt in his voice.

But it definitely wasn't enough to cast any doubt in _her_ mind.

Unfortunately.

More assured than ever, she allowed her smugness to reach toxic proportions – or at least that was what it felt like; her arrogance made his stomach turn, especially when she taunted, "I know your secret."

House tried to roll over, but she wouldn't let him turn very far. Her face pressing into his back, her weight resting against him, he couldn't turn onto his back without elbowing her in the nose.

… Which was, admittedly, rather enticing.

But knowing that Wilson was still out there, House was pretty sure that giving Cuddy a bloody nose wasn't the answer. And instead of getting violent, he merely argued feebly, "You don't know –"

"Oh, yes, I do," she said, her taunting smile something he could feel even through his t-shirt. One of her hands found one of his underneath the pillow, and though he couldn't see what she was doing, he could feel her fingers entwine with his. "You _like_ me, House."

He scowled, despite knowing that the emotion to convincingly pull the expression off was surprisingly absent. "I _really_ don't. Really, really, _really_ don't."

Her chin dug into his back as she playfully argued, "You _lie_. You like me."

"I don't like you; I'm _used _to you," he replied grumpily. "There's a difference." Thinking of the quickest comparison that came to mind, he added, "A prostitute becomes accustomed to the danger associated with her profession; doesn't mean she _likes_ waking up to an ass covered in warts."

He could feel her eyeing him carefully. "You're comparing yourself to a prostitute."

"It's okay," he assured her. "I don't mind being the hooker in the metaphor. It's still better than being the clusters of –"

Quickly she interrupted, "I get it."

"Good."

"You're in _complete_ denial over how much you like me," she said in a cheerful manner.

Which was in direct contrast to how her comment made him feel. "Yeah, that must be it."

"Like I told you, House… I'm here as long as you need me," she reminded him. "You're healthy enough for me to say that if you _really_ want me gone…"

She didn't finish the thought, and he didn't need her to. Her offer was one he naturally understood; she was _challenging_ him to ask her to leave, calling his bluff.

And every fiber of his being demanded that he say the words she was daring him to say. Some voice screaming above the ringing in his head told him that it would be _so_ easy. This was who he was; this was what he did: act like a bastard; push her away, and tell her to leave.

It should have been so easy.

After years of doing it to nearly _everyone_ he knew, it should have been the simplest thing in the world to do.

But…

He didn't ask her to leave.

He didn't tell her that her presence was suffocating him and that he still longed to be alone.

Instead, House muttered softly the truth of the matter: "That's not what I want."

The admission hung heavily; his words seemed to steal all of the oxygen in the air, and he had to struggle to breathe (the task made all the more difficult by the weight of Cuddy on his back) once he'd spoken something he'd only ever thought before.

He didn't want her to leave, and he'd finally said it aloud, and now she knew precisely what it was that he'd been thinking. And to be completely honest, he expected her to use that against him.

Well, he expected _anyone_ he said that to to use it against him. If only because he probably would have done just that if the situation were reversed, he anticipated anyone and _everyone_ in Cuddy's position to do the same.

She didn't though.

She easily could have; she was certainly already smug enough to take pleasure in his admission.

But she didn't use it against him.

Cuddy just calmly said, "Good… it's nice to hear that… especially after being compared to _venereal_ warts."

"Fine. I'll come up with a better comparison if it bothers you so much," he said, sounding falsely put upon. Thinking about it for a second, he tried to come up with a simile she would be less offended by. Granted, he didn't think she was _actually_ offended now, but if he could come up with a better metaphor, he would certainly use it; if only to stop her from using this comparison against him for the rest of the week, he definitely thought it was worth trying to find something better.

Yet... nothing less offensive really came to mind.

He tried on for size, "All right. Cuddy. You're the barnacle stuck to my –"

"I don't have any desire to hear how you're going to finish that sentence," she said dryly. "And for the record, comparing me to a parasitic –"

"Barnacles aren't parasites," he corrected immediately. But he knew that wasn't exactly true, so he amended, "Well, some are, but most –"

"Forget it," she muttered into his t-shirt. "If you have to explain it, then it's not a very good metaphor."

"Well, I'm sorry." He sounded and felt peevish. "You try coming up with something better after you haven't slept in –"

"You didn't sleep at all today?" There was light concern in her voice.

"No."

"Did you try?"

The question was an annoying one, one that House couldn't help but snap at her for. "_No_. I thought to myself, 'Hey, this whole _not_ sleeping thing is rather fun. Lets see how long I can do it without dying.'" After a beat, he asked her, "What the hell do you think?"

"Calm down," she quickly admonished. "Ignoring the fact that you _would_, absolutely without question, go without sleep to prove a point, I was curious. I _am_ curious."

Pulling away from him, she sat up once more. Her gaze trained on him carefully, she began to explain, "If you tried to sleep and couldn't, then perhaps the problem is related to a physical –"

"_Perhaps_?"

His mind immediately picked up on the verbal oddity. Although there were many causes of insomnia, most of those reasons fit into one of two categories: physical causes or mental ones. And if Cuddy believed that his inability to sleep was related to a physical problem, she would say so; that she'd used the word perhaps suggested to him that she _didn't_ believe that the issue was a physical one. And if she didn't think it was physical, then…

"You think I'm crazy." House had meant for the words to sound more like a question, but that wasn't how it sounded to his ears. It didn't even seem like an accusation, he thought miserably. Which he would have settled for, because even though he wasn't feeling accusatory, it still had to be better than the way he'd spoken. The deduction one filled with defeat, it must have made her think he was pathetic.

It _had_ to have, because if his words hadn't given her that impression, she wouldn't have been so quick to disagree with him. "I don't think you're crazy," she said almost immediately, her voice firm but paradoxically gentle at the same time.

But then she cocked her head and conceded, "All right, I think you're _insane._ However, I don't think your _insomnia_ is proof of that."

House propped his head up on one of his hands so he could get a better look at her. What she was saying made sense, but part of him suspected that she was simply trying to placate him. And if she were doing that, he thought he would be able to see the lie in her eyes.

However, he didn't get much of a chance to look at her carefully. Because as soon as he shifted on the bed, she was quick to suggest, "We can fight about this later… if you _insist_. Right now though, you should talk to Wilson."

Folding her arms across her chest, she explained, "He's not going to stay here for forever, and the sooner you talk to him, the sooner you'll be able to sleep."

From a rational perspective, he could see that everything she was saying made sense. Rip the bandage off the skin as quickly as possible and all that…. It made sense.

But he didn't make a move to get out of bed; even though Cuddy stood up and reached out with a hand to help him, he stayed exactly where he was. Because her suggestion might have made sense, but it was still the last thing he wanted to do.

"Come on," Cuddy coaxed to no avail.

He shook his head. "I'm tired." And there was no doubt in his mind that that point had come through his tone effectively; every syllable of that sentence dripped with exhaustion – the kind of desperate ache for slumber that had become a familiar companion impossible to ignore.

"I know. But the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can –"

"I'm not ready." His voice cracked over the words, the doubt he'd been feeling bleeding through to the surface for her to see.

He hadn't wanted her to see it.

His jaw clenching and unclenching repeatedly, he thought over and over that this was the _last_ thing he wanted.

To need Cuddy.

To have _her_ know about it.

To have _her_ be the one to bring Wilson here.

To have to _speak_ to Wilson when House _knew_ they weren't ready to be friends again.

To know that failure was the only way this could end…

House hadn't wanted any of it.

If anything, he'd done everything he could to _avoid_ all of these situations. He'd tried to avoid Wilson and Cuddy ever since the accident as best as he could. But House hadn't succeeded by anyone's measure.

Cuddy hadn't let him.

And maybe – _maybe_ – that was a good thing, but it hardly felt that way now. Truth be told, at this very moment, he didn't think he knew how to resent her more. But then she said, "You're going to have to be," and he realized that he could _definitely_ be angrier.

She wasn't saying anything he didn't already know; if he didn't talk to Wilson now, House understood that he wouldn't have another chance. Wilson would take the rejection as proof that House didn't care, and he would leave, and that would be all there was to it to their friendship.

There was no denying that, no ignoring the truth in what she was saying. But House hated her for it. He hated her for the way she so _blithely_ had decided that today was the day to bring Wilson over.

After all, shouldn't that have really been _House's_ decision? Shouldn't _he_ have been the one to say, "Hey, Cuddy, I think I feel good enough to talk to Wilson, so why don't you go shake your ass in front of him and use your milkshake to bring him to the yard"?

Or something like that.

The exact language escaped him, and it wasn't important, because the point he was trying to make was that it should have been his choice. It should have been up to him. And because she hadn't respected that fact, now House stood to lose all of it.

She was right: if he didn't talk to Wilson now, it was over. But House couldn't help but feel as though she'd stacked the dice against him to begin with.

"You shouldn't have done this," he muttered angrily.

Sadness graced her features, and he was relieved to see that she at least had the decency to look contrite. "I'm sorry that you're tired and not feeling well," she said in earnest. "Maybe today wasn't such a great day for this."

"You _think_?"

She wasn't put off by the sarcasm. "But that doesn't matter now. I can't do anything about it. So you're just going to have to talk to him."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a motion of her hand. "And," she added harshly. "You can waste your time fighting me on this all you want. But we both know that you can't deny what I'm saying. So you might as well save us both some time and get your ass out of bed."

Surprising her, House obeyed the command. He forced himself to his feet like she wanted… but not without telling her, "I hope Hitler poops on your side of the bed."

Her gaze immediately shifted to the black and white rabbit who was hopping along the middle of the bed. It was obvious that she was considering complaining about the animal; God only knew she'd bitched about it at least three or four separate times this week _alone_. Which was stupid in _his _opinion, since she'd been the one to buy the bunny to begin with.

But she didn't say anything about the creature. Instead, Cuddy shook her head and looked back at him. The annoyance in her gaze was muted, and it was clear that she wasn't going to fight him on the somewhat (okay, _completely_) immature remark.

"Come on," she encouraged, placing her hands on his forearm and the small of his back. As she corralled him to the door, she tried to reassure him. "You'll be fine. I'll be with you the whole time."

House would have liked to be able to say that her words bolstered his confidence. Granted, it would have made him feel like the world's biggest pussy, but at least he would have felt better about talking to Wilson. House knew he would have felt better prepared to speak to Wilson if her words had meant something.

But the truth was there was nothing – absolutely _nothing –_ to be said that could take House's mind off of the reality around him. Cuddy could have been the most convincing woman on the planet, her tongue made of silver, but there was no way he could ignore that the odds right now were stacked against him; he'd killed Amber, and Wilson hated him for the inexcusable act, and there wasn't much House could say to make it better.

And he supposed now was the time to rally behind the challenge, to look at winning Wilson back as the same kind of mental exercise sick people provided. But walking down the hallway, House couldn't help but feel like a criminal being walked to the electric chair.

The pervading deadly silence of the living room did nothing but confirm that that comparison had its merits.

Wilson had laid out the food Cuddy had bought into an attractive spread on the coffee table. The take out boxes had been discarded, the meal neatly arranged on dishes and plates. Naturally, House wanted to make a joke out of the matter, because _really_, who gave a crap about take out presentation?

But he kept the comment to himself.

Aside from the fact that Wilson had probably put everything out out of boredom, House understood that the joke would fall on deaf ears. As difficult as it was sometimes to remember that Wilson hated him, as much as the impulse within him to tell Wilson things lived on, House _knew_ the less he said the better.

He'd already come close to screwing everything up; if Cuddy hadn't shown up when she had, Wilson would have absolutely left. Actually, if it hadn't been for her, Wilson wouldn't have come _at all_, and all of those circumstances were impossible to miss.

Just as it was impossible to miss the awful tension in the room and the way Wilson's hateful gaze seemed to propel animosity through the air towards House.

Frozen he offered no fight when Cuddy guided him silently to the couch. His eyes trained on Wilson, House barely even noticed that she was moving him further into the room, and it was impossible to mount any defense against her when he was too concerned with what Wilson might do.

In the back of his mind, House reminded himself that the situation around him was precarious at best. Success lived on the edge of a knife; one wrong or miscalculated move, and they would all suffer for it. Wilson would hate him; Cuddy would be furious, and House himself would be relegated to continue in the miserable existence he'd found himself in for the last eight weeks.

And for all of their sakes, he was determined to avoid that future.

Of course, it seemed like such an inevitable thing at this point. Cuddy thought that she could fix this by scheming and manipulating them together, but the fact was:

Things were grim.

House knew he had to stave off the desire to capitulate and fight as hard as he knew how to against that reality. He knew that, if he wanted to make the next few months ones worth living for, he would have to go against the grain and _make_ Wilson see the value in their friendship. And in order to do that, House _also_ knew that it would take more than a few ill-considered platitudes.

He would have to focus all of his attention on Wilson as well.

Years of experience had taught House that more than half of any good conversation resulted from noticing and interpreting cues from the other person. Although he usually enjoyed telling people the stuff that would piss them off, he had always appreciated that saying the right thing depended on understanding how the other person was feeling. And he was determined to put that knowledge to good use now.

The thought plaguing him, he didn't even notice Cuddy sitting down on the couch next to him until she broke the uncomfortable silence by suggesting, "Why don't we eat?"

He noted almost immediately the dutiful tone in Wilson's response of "All right." It was so perfunctory that you would have had to have been completely unaware of human emotions not to notice it. Frankly it made House a little bitter and filled with melancholy, because even though it was unintentional, Wilson's tone was proof that he was only here, only doing this, because Cuddy had clearly asked him to do it.

Of course, House had figured as much. But that didn't mean he necessarily wanted to be reminded of it every time Wilson opened his mouth.

Then again, sitting here in silence as Cuddy dished an assortment of foods onto three plates wasn't exactly much better. Wilson was watching him without saying a word, and House tried hard not to squirm under the other man's intentional gaze. Which was hard to do, considering the serving spoons kept hitting the china, loud clinks bursting through the air like fireworks on a dark night.

The noise, in direct contrast to the annoying consistency of the rain, was always sudden, in time with some equation he didn't instinctively know. Its unpredictability made him tense, his muscles constricting of their own accord. What he hoped would happen by doing that he didn't know. The move wasn't making Wilson's heated gaze or the sound any easier for House to take; each scratch, contact, and clash with the dishware still made the ringing in his ears infinitely worse.

And he had half a mind to snap angrily at Cuddy. Hell, if Wilson hadn't been there, House _would_ have already. But since Wilson _was_ there, House knew that yelling wouldn't accomplish anything.

Or rather, it wouldn't accomplish anything _good_, he mentally corrected. Because shouting at Cuddy to be more careful would get _something_ done. It would make her pissy and send Wilson running from the room, convinced that nothing good could come of this. House had no doubts about that; barking would only make things worse for himself, so he kept quiet.

He'd probably explode with rage as soon as this conversation was over, but in the meantime, he would control himself. He would repress every bad feeling – bad being defined as something that wouldn't help him win Wilson over – until things were back to the way they _should_ have been.

Until Wilson accepted an apology and agreed to be his friend once more.

Anything less than that, no matter how much more likely it was to occur, was not grounds to let loose, and House refused to let himself believe otherwise.

Of course, he quickly realized that it could be a long time before things were righted between Wilson and him. _Not_ entirely because there was a lot they needed to work through, mind you.

But because nobody was saying anything.

Cuddy was silently handing out plates of food; Wilson and he were taking the dishes without a word (House didn't count Wilson's muttered "Thank you" as speaking). And if the purpose of this meeting were to talk, they all seemed intent on doing the exact opposite.

Well, at least he'd been right in thinking that this wouldn't be easy.

An admittedly small consolation, it was one he grasped hold of nonetheless. This meeting was proving to be as painful as imaginable, as he'd thought it would be. And if he couldn't lessen his awareness of that unfortunate fact (or fix it quickly), then he sure as hell _was_ going to take small victories where he could find them.

At this point _any_ success was one he would appreciate.

However, that only got him so far on the House-happiness scale. He did feel better superficially, his satisfaction roughly on par with the first lick of a cherry lollipop or first sighting of Cuddy's cleavage. It made him feel pleased for a brief moment, but it did nothing in the long run. It did nothing to warm the chill of shame, combined with knowledge of impending disaster, inside of him.

Suddenly feeling as though both Wilson and Cuddy could see those emotions inside of him, House broke his rule to look at Wilson constantly. As much as House needed to observe the other man's cues, he felt the urgent, illogical fear inside of him whisper that that worked both ways. The voice said that Wilson knew, or _would_ know, that House was desperate for their friendship and embarrassed that he should have ever lost it to begin with.

And for his purposes, he supposed that sharing that knowledge was a good thing in the long run. But it didn't feel like that; he might have been pathetic, but there was still an _inkling_ of pride within him. And as much as he probably should let Wilson know how he was feeling, House wasn't a fan of the idea that he was or could be divulging information about himself without meaning to.

He was _not_ a control freak like Cuddy could be.

He was _not_ obsessed with being in charge for the sake of being in charge.

But he was also aware that quite a lot had been decided for him the last two months. So much had been taken from him without any consent on his part, without any awareness on his part. And on any given day, that was upsetting, yes, but _today_ he resented it more than usual.

Whether that was because Cuddy had brought Wilson here or for some other reason, House didn't really know. Maybe it was just the fear that he could share with Wilson something that would only make things worse, he thought. Either way though, he wanted to be in control of what Wilson knew, so he looked down at his plate of food.

Cuddy had given him a little bit of everything. Squid, tofu, and some sort of bird were all mingling together on the dish, the juices and sauces from each food mixing together to form a brown river of MSG, soy, curry, and who knew what else.

It should have been appetizing.

Considering how little he'd eaten today, he should have been stuffing his face full of food. Even if it was Malaysian, which he wasn't a huge fan of, House thought he should have been hungry enough to eat with gusto.

But he wasn't.

He wasn't even interested in eating the noodles and rice Cuddy had put on his plate. Which was really surprising, because, aside from the bread on his Reubens (which he was so sick of at this point), he hadn't been _allowed_ much in the way of carbohydrates.

He hated having to put it that way – "he hadn't been allowed." It made him feel like a little boy denied soda and cookies at the dinner table or chocolate milk in the lunch line at school. It reminded him that Cuddy had had quite a bit of control over his every day life for the last extended period of time. And though he understood her motivation and probably would have denied himself the same foods if he were in her position, it still sucked.

It was still embarrassing.

_And_ it should have been all the reason he needed to chow down now like his life depended on it.

But for whatever reason, it wasn't, and he just sat there, picking at a jiggly piece of tofu with his fork.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson, who was sitting on the chair that normally in front of House's desk, eating with an awareness of the awkwardness around them. Every bite taken was careful, thoughtful, as though chewing too loudly would screw everything up and push them all over the edge. It seemed like an insane belief at first, but after a bit of consideration, House guessed it wasn't that crazy; his tinnitus could very easily be aggravated by a noise like that, no matter how innocent it was, and _that_ could set off the precarious calm that had settled over the room… though he doubted that that was what was motivating Wilson.

Cuddy, on the other hand, was eating with more earnestness – as she had for the last two days as a clear result of skipping lunch at work. She wasn't inhaling the food; she was too _delicate_ and _polite_ for that kind of piggish behavior. But she was quick to shovel food onto her fork right after she'd taken the utensil away from her lips.

And yet her obvious hunger did nothing to stop her from giving House an imploring look the whole time.

He didn't want to glance in her direction as he knew what to expect from her. And really, he didn't _need_ to look at her to feel her pained expression wafting his way as though it possessed a scent as pungent as the squid and curry.

She was silently asking him to talk, asking him to take the first step. Rationally, he had to agree with her that this was really something _he_ had to initiate, because honestly, what was Wilson going to say to start off the conversation? "Hey, House, I think you're a douche bag" didn't exactly sound like a great way to begin matters, and he understood intuitively that, if he allowed Wilson to initiate things, then it would be a failure from start to finish.

Logically, House knew that _he_ had to be the one to take that first step towards reconciliation.

But that was _not_ an easy thing to do.

And to be frank, the tug of war within him, the desire to say nothing and everything, the need to fight and apologize, yell and cry – all of it made him feel absolutely _insane_.

He _wasn't_.

This was _not_ a matter of his brain injury or his apparent depression or any other mental or physical illness controlling him.

He was completely sane in this utter madness. Aware of every possible motivation and way he could behave, he knew that he was absolutely in control of his facilities – even as it all threatened to pull him in several directions.

He felt like a rubber band on the verge of being stretched to the breaking point. The invisible elasticity within him, the ability to manipulate any event to his advantage, was nearing the point of no return, he felt like things would either return to normal for him or never be anywhere near the same again after today. And the unfortunate thing was that no matter how he got there, no matter how things ended up…

He would be going there with all of the sanity he'd ever possessed.

There would be no hiding behind his illness, no hiding behind the lie that the universe had created this conflux of events.

There would be no hiding _period_.

And if he succeeded or failed, it would be success or failure of his own doing and _nobody_ else's.

Maybe that should have made him feel better; maybe knowing that he was in control should have made him feel like he could take Wilson on. But it didn't; it just made him feel as though sitting here in the silence, making no move towards one direction or the other, neither gaining, nor losing any ground, was the best thing to do.

Cuddy clearly didn't agree.

Clearing her throat, she suggested awkwardly, "Maybe one of you should say something."

Wilson and House said nothing, perhaps a true testament to just how powerful she _wasn't_ in this situation.

Not that she was ready to believe that, much less throw in the towel.

Swallowing another bite of food, she tried to encourage them. "Come on. I know you both have plenty of things to say to one another…. Someone should start."

Neither did.

And that made her sigh loudly, the exhale of air so big House thought he could feel it. "All right," she said to no one in particular, leaning forward to put her plate on the coffee table.

Before she'd even had a chance to angle her body his way, House knew that she was going to make him talk. Well, she was going to _try_ to make him talk, he corrected, somehow feeling slightly more confident by telling himself that she couldn't make him do anything.

"House," she said carefully, her knee brushing up against his leg as she brought her own legs up onto the couch. "Do you have something you would like to say to Wilson?"

Unbidden the memory of having to apologize to the neighbor for breaking her window with a baseball flitted through House's mind. Back then, his mother had had the same kind of soft, condescending encouragement in her tone as Cuddy did now, and the forty years or so of time between the two events only seemed to accentuate how very little he'd changed. No more responsible than he'd been then, no more mature or willing to accept the help of others, he was proof that people did not change.

He was proof, all the reason Wilson needed to believe that they were better off not being friends. That Wilson _himself_ was better off without him, House amended, because he knew in his soul that without Wilson…

House had very little.

Wilson didn't need him, but he needed Wilson in his life.

Needed him, but didn't deserve him.

Shaking his head, House answered Cuddy's question silently.

She, however, didn't seem to understand – or accept – that Wilson was better off, because she simply kept persisting. "I think you do have something to say," she told him, audibly trying to prompt him into an apology. And when that didn't work, she took a more direct route.

Instead of giving him the opportunity to pick his own words, Cuddy simply asked him, "Are you sorry about what happened to Amber?"

He didn't want to dignify her verbal handholding with a response. What he _wanted_ to do was to say screw Hitler, the middleman be damned, and take the dump he'd threatened Cuddy with earlier _himself_.

She was trying to help, yes, but he _resented_ her so much in this particular moment. And he wanted to punish her for it, wanted her to know just how much he hated her for it.

But he couldn't do that.

His anger might have been pervading through his entire body, but he was not so enraged as to miss the way Wilson's eyes had narrowed on his form.

Wilson wanted an answer.

He was searching for one, for one that he could believe.

And if House allowed his ire towards Cuddy to get in the way of giving Wilson the truthful answer, House would have never forgiven himself for it.

In any emergency, you had to triage, he told himself. Vaguely recalling the time he'd taken Foreman and a patient hostage in an elevator, House remembered the words he'd said then: _"You wake up in the morning; your paint's peeling; your curtains are gone, and the water's boiling. Which problem do you deal with first? None of them! The building's on fire."_

That metaphorical building was on fire now. And he could waste his time getting angry at Cuddy; he could selfishly and childishly make this harder for her just to see how she would react to his stubbornness. He could react to the symptoms of the problem and choose to ignore the overarching cause.

There would be some sick pleasure in that. Not just in making Cuddy miserable, but also in fulfilling this prophecy he'd had that this would only end badly.

There would be sick pleasure to be had in being _right_.

But that wouldn't make him happy in the long run. That wouldn't fix the problem around them, and the metaphorical house would burn down, would be unsalvageable, if he reacted small mindedly.

Forced into a corner, he nodded his head. He didn't say anything, but it was an admittance nonetheless.

An admittance that Wilson didn't believe.

"You're lying."

The icy words made the sun-heated room suddenly seem cold, and both House _and_ Cuddy shivered instinctively at his reaction.

And she was quick to defend him. "Wilson, I don't think –"

"He's _lying_."

Wilson was so insistent that House found himself looking up from his plate and into angry, dark eyes that showed no hint of warmth or sympathy. House didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

He supposed he'd merely been hoping that the anger in Wilson's words were a front, were a guise for some deeper desire for friendship.

It was clear though that that wasn't even remotely the case.

And House had to wonder if there were any point in trying to convince someone who obviously hated him that a friendship was a good idea.

Cuddy, on the other hand, apparently, didn't wonder that at all. She was quick once more to defend him. "Wilson, I promise you that he's not lying to you. He wants –"

"I don't give a _damn_ what he wants," Wilson snapped viciously, the sentiment making House set his fork down on his plate with a loud clang. "The entire time I've known him I've been concerned with _him_. With what would make _him_ happy, what would make _him_ miserable, and I'm so _sick_ of it, Cuddy."

Wilson sawed through a piece of what House had deduced was duck but did not eat it. But then again, he was pretty sure that Wilson had only cut through the food as a way to distract Cuddy and House from the fact that his hands were shaking with rage.

"I let _him_ come between me and my wives… _all_ of them. I didn't spend as much time as I could have with my _girlfriend_, because I was afraid of upsetting _him_ too much. I wasted so much energy and effort on making _him_ happy, and it cost _me_ the rest of my life with _Amber_," Wilson accused with so much bitterness and pain in his voice that House felt as though he couldn't breathe.

And in a way, it made him almost happy that Wilson hadn't allowed him to see his suffering for the last two months. Because having to face it now, House wasn't sure he could have handled that on a daily basis. The guilt, sadness, and indignation it inspired was terrifying and exhausting.

_And_ confusing.

Sitting there, House felt as though his internal rubber band were being pulled once more to the brink. He could feel himself wanting to react in a number of ways; he wanted to apologize; he wanted to yell at Cuddy, at Wilson, at anyone and everyone in his vicinity.

He wanted it to stop.

But he didn't know what he should do.

Maybe it should have been an easy decision to make. A sane, shrewd person would have argued that, if he wanted Wilson's forgiveness, then the only option was to apologize with as much honesty and intent as possible.

For House though, it wasn't that simple.

Oh, he was willing to apologize for all of the things he'd done to Wilson. He would apologize for killing CB; he would apologize for demanding so much attention that it had led Wilson to neglect some of the other areas of his life.

But – and maybe this had to do with the way Wilson was talking – it seemed like he wanted House to take responsibility for _everything_ that had gone wrong in their lives.

And he wouldn't do that.

It was _not_ his fault that every one of Wilson's wives had left. If they'd left, that probably had more to do with Wilson cheating on them or them cheating on him than anything else. And more than anything, even if House had tried to make himself the most important thing in Wilson's life, at the end of the day, wasn't it up to _Wilson_ to prevent that from happening?

Didn't _he_ bear some responsibility for all of this?

House didn't dare ask that question; just thinking it was all he intended to do, and it was all he needed to feel that he couldn't be held accountable for every poor choice Wilson had made.

It was also all the motivation House needed to keep his mouth shut. At this point, he thought that, as much as all of this anger was about him, some of it wasn't. Some of it was about lashing out against the shitty circumstances that they all found themselves. And House knew this because…

Well, because he was there himself right now; he'd _been_ there for two months, and he was smart enough to know how to recognize that same kind of frustration in another person.

But Wilson interpreted his silence differently. "You see?" he asked so loudly that he almost sounded hysterical. "He's not _saying_ anything. He knows I'm right. He knows that this is all his fault."

Cuddy leaned forward in Wilson's direction, though she didn't get up and go to him. "You can't argue that he's not sorry and then also say that he knows it's all his fault," she pointed out in a non-accusatory manner. She was clearly trying to make a point without upsetting Wilson, but House knew from experience that her intentions probably didn't mean anything.

"Sure, I can. He knows it's his fault; he just doesn't _care_." Wilson paused to rub the back of his neck with one of his hands, and the gesture made House think that he was more resigned and frustrated by the scenario than outright angry at the moment. Really, it just seemed like Wilson had thought to himself: _Okay, this is the way House is, and he'll never change, and I have to accept that and banish it (and him) from my life_.

And that pissed House off.

Because if Wilson had already decided to move on, he should have never come here. He should have never agreed with Cuddy to talk to him. Granted, House was sure she'd given Wilson something he wanted – _really_ wanted – to get him to come here but still.

If Wilson had already decided that there was nothing House could do or say, then this was just a waste of time. A _painful_ waste of time, House amended, as his tinnitus seemed to pound on his skull and shatter his fracture even further.

And whether it was the pain or his irritation that finally loosened his tongue, House didn't know. But he _did_ speak then.

"Yeah, I just _love_ it when people die at my hand," he responded roughly, interrupting the tirade Wilson was clearly working towards. "I get off on it. And when I can't kill someone, I think making you miserable is an acceptable substitute."

The mocking tone was impossible to miss, and Wilson was temporarily taken aback by it. Which let House know that, for all of his anger, for all of his statements about House and how awful he was, some part of Wilson had believed – until now – that _maybe_ House was repentant.

He screwed up.

The thought hit House immediately and repeatedly.

He had just screwed up.

_Badly_.

Whatever chance he might have had…

He'd just ruined it.

And Cuddy softly admonishing him by saying his name was proof of that.

He'd just made everything impossible for himself.

Yet Wilson didn't get up and leave.

House had expected him to end the conversation right then and there. He'd anticipated a bunch of insults filled with an honesty that only feeling deep-seated rage would allow for and a flurry of activity as Wilson bolted and Cuddy tried to get him to stay.

But none of that happened.

For the life of him, House had no idea why. If the roles were reversed, he thought he would have left by now (although if the situations were truly reversed, House couldn't deny that he probably would have never come, no matter how much Cuddy offered as compensation). But for whatever reason, Wilson stayed precisely where he was.

Wilson silently set his plate on the ground, allowing his now free hands to clench in and out of frustrated fists. House took special note of this. He didn't necessarily think that Wilson would _hit_ him, but House wanted to allow for all possibilities.

However, rather than use those fists, Wilson began to speak in slow, furious words. "Thank you, House, for proving to me that you are… _exactly_ what I thought you would be like." He gestured towards Cuddy, disdain somehow evident in the flick of his hand. "_She_ kept saying you'd changed, that you felt _bad_ about what happened. But once _again_, you have shown that humanity is something you have no capacity for." With a mock bow of his head, Wilson finished by saying, "_Thank you_ for showing me that I made the right decision by cutting you out of my life. You poison everything you touch."

Cuddy looked like she wanted to say something to calm Wilson down, but House had no interest in that Lifetime television movie. Before she'd even had a chance to utter a single word, he railroaded over her. "Yeah, I'm the _only_ one in this room who's made a mistake," House replied snidely.

He figured that there was no point in trying to argue his own virtue. Would anyone in this room believe him anyway?

He doubted it.

And so the only option left to him was to make sure that everyone else realized that he wasn't the only one who had screwed up.

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one who cheated on two of my three wives. I wasn't the one who slept with a patient." Of course, House didn't particularly care about either all that much. The latter was probably more bothersome to him as the very idea of fraternizing with patients made House feel as though he were going to break out into hives.

But he didn't _really_ care.

Unlike Cuddy, who immediately said in a disgusted tone, "You _slept_ with a _patient_?"

Both House and Wilson scowled at her, but the latter had no chance to speak as House once more started talking. "We all make choices – good _and_ bad. Did I screw up? _Of course_. But you don't want to hear me say how bad I feel about that. You don't care if I tell you that I liked Amber – that she was _my_ friend too or that I knew her long before _you_ ever did – because you don't want to even _consider_ that this might not be as black and white as you think."

Wilson jutted his chin out defiantly, obviously refusing to lend credence to anything House was saying. Even Cuddy was looking at him as though he'd lost his damn mind. Her hand covering one of his, it was a sign that he should shut up.

But he didn't.

"You don't want an apology. You want to _hate_ me," he said knowingly, his bright eyes trained on Wilson's dark ones. "You want to make me out to be the big bad wolf? Fine. Consider this my final act of huffing and puffing. Consider your house blown down."

Cuddy sighed next to him in exasperation. His gaze might have been trained on Wilson, but House couldn't miss the movement out of the corner of his eye. She clearly thought he'd just screwed everything up… and perhaps he had; but more than anything, House felt as though Wilson had preemptively decided the outcome of this conversation. And that meant that there was no real way for House to succeed, much less screw up.

Besides, if Wilson were only willing to believe the worst in him, then why not give into his darker urges? Why not give Wilson everything he was _obviously_ hoping to see?

"If you actually felt bad," Wilson snarled. "You wouldn't be such a –"

"If _you_ actually wanted me to feel bad," House interrupted loudly. "_You_ wouldn't be such a judgmental _dick_."

"House," Cuddy warned. She was clearly worried about where this was going, and he didn't have the heart to tell her that it was already too late for him or that it didn't matter what he said now.

Wilson stood up, but he made no move for the door. His face red, he told Cuddy, "Don't bother. Just let him _talk_ like he always does. There's no point in trying to dress him up or put him in a nice package." With disdain he looked at House. "He's always going to be like that, and no matter how hard anyone tries to change him, he will still be the same disgusting piece of human waste that he has _always_ been."

Cuddy squeezed his hand, but it did nothing to stop the blood from draining out of House's face. It did nothing to stop the feeling of failure from washing through him, as though the emotion itself had replaced the plasma suspending his blood cells. She was trying to keep him calm, give him some hope that he hadn't had for at least a month now. But her efforts were worthless, her reassurances unable to touch the place inside of him riddled by his anger and fear and feeling of defeat.

"Sit down," Cuddy ordered immediately, perhaps sensing that Wilson was ready to bolt.

However, he refused, shaking his head as fast and as hard as his neck would allow. "_No_."

She sneered at him. "That wasn't a request, Wilson. _Sit down_. Now."

House almost laughed at how angry she was. Compared to his own and Wilson's anger, hers was the equivalent of the fury a fuzzy kitten could create. Really, it was a pathetic output, given what both Wilson and House himself were capable of doing. But there was no denying that she was absolutely furious.

And apparently, despite its comparative weakness, her ire was still scary enough for Wilson to obey instantly.

"Nobody is going anywhere," she informed them both in a cold tone. "And you _both_ are going to stop insulting one another. I didn't bring you here," she told Wilson, "so that you could merely shout at each other until you're blue in the face."

Once more, Wilson shook his head. "You asked me to come here so I could tell _him_ everything I needed to say."

"And in _return_, you need to hear him out," she reminded him. "You need to _listen_ to him, or else there's no reason for him to listen to you."

Wilson narrowed his eyes on her, almost as though he couldn't possibly consider what she was trying to tell him. In the back of his mind, curious, House tried to remember the last time Wilson had been too furious to even consider what was going on around him. And almost immediately, another memory from the past washed over House.

This one was much more recent than the recollection involving his mother, but it still felt like a lifetime ago. Wilson had been in the process of realizing his third marriage was a failure; he'd been living with House, and at the time, House had been trying to solve a case involving…

Heart failure?

Something involving ticks?

He couldn't really remember at the moment what the case had been about. _That_ he was willing to blame on his brain injury, the impulse to fully recollect what had happened stomped out by the ringing in his ear.

But anyway, he'd been trying to think without interruption, so he'd put the stethoscope on the doorknob, and Wilson had thought he'd been jerking off. Of course that was more disgust than anger, but nevertheless, it was probably the last time House could remember Wilson being too upset to speak, much less reason.

And the memory, though incomplete, was enough to make House smirk, an unwanted chuckle sneaking past his defenses.

Immediately, both Wilson and Cuddy snapped their attention, with varying degrees of ire obviously, to him. Cuddy spoke first, a curious "House?" escaping her lips.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Wilson interrupted with such rage that he looked like he was about have a heart attack. "You see?" House noted that Wilson had said that multiple times this evening – as though believing that House was awful wasn't enough; Wilson apparently wanted, _needed_, Cuddy to see it as well. "He thinks this is a _joke_. He's actually _laughing_. And if he's not going to take this seriously, then –"

"You don't even know what I was laughing at," House retorted lamely. It wasn't his best defense in the world, but it was true enough in this case.

Wilson stood up once more, hands on his hips. "Then what _were_ you laughing at? Huh?"

House hesitated to tell the truth. He wasn't sure that he wanted to remind Wilson of better times; at this point he just didn't know if Wilson would respond to it or if he would see it as a cheap attempt to make things better.

Probably the latter, House decided. But then at this point, he didn't exactly have many other options. So he sighed, his right hand instinctively beginning to rub at his right thigh as he said, "You're so pissy you can't speak right now, which is odd for you, because you normally like to overanalyze and rationalize everything."

Wilson understandably took offense to this, but House kept talking, never giving the other man the opportunity to speak. "So I was thinking about the last time you got this way. You were living with me, and you thought I'd been masturbating in the apartment for hours."

Wilson's eyebrows knitted together as he tried to remember such a time. But in all honesty, it was Cuddy's response that was truly worth noting; she'd been around House's antics long enough to be nearly immune to them. Sometimes she responded with anger – only a robot would be able to deal with him on a day-to-day basis without getting upset at some point. But for the most part, she looked at his antics with rather bored eyes, as though she were expecting him to be a jackass.

Yet this was different.

She wasn't angry or unimpressed by any means. If anything, she was looking at him as though she had no idea what he was talking about. But the bemused expression on her face was hardly noteworthy; the touch of relief flitting across her features, on the other hand, definitely was.

Behind the confusion was clearly an amount of gratitude that she'd never had to experience such things. Which was really stupid in House's estimation. She wanted to sit there and act like him masturbating was gross, but she'd also had _sex_ with him _and_ had admitted that she'd always thought they'd do it again. In _her_ own words, the night they'd spent together had been more than a moment of weakness. In _her_ opinion, the sex had been good enough that she'd assumed it would happen again at some point. And without feelings of regret or disgust, she didn't really have a right to be disgusted over the idea of him getting off with his hand. Because _truly_, how was using _her_ body any different than jerking off in private?

House decided to file that question away for later. He definitely wanted an answer, but he supposed that right now wasn't the perfect time to ask her. Considering Wilson didn't even know that they'd slept together (unless she'd confirmed it at some point, which House doubted), it would probably be weird to remind her of that moment in time now.

So knowing that, he waited silently for a response, giving Wilson the time he needed to recall what House was saying.

And eventually, Wilson confessed, scrubbing his face with one of his hands, "I didn't really remember that."

His tone was much less accusatory than it had been moments before. The anger that had been in his voice was nearly gone, and House took this as a sign that he'd done something right just then. His tinnitus backed off just a little bit, allowing him the mental clarity to see that Wilson was calmer. And House could use the change in mood to his advantage.

He _would_ use it to his advantage.

"I don't know why you were so freaked out about the idea," House said conversationally. "After your bachelor parties, I thought you would have been more understanding about –"

Wilson interrupted speedily, "Karamel and I never –"

"_Karamel_?"

This time Cuddy was the one to interrupt.

Disgust was audible in the single word she spoke, and she had an expression on her face that matched her tone. Her features distorted, smushed together, she looked as though she were about to change the sheets of an incontinent sufferer of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. "That sounds like the name of a _stripper_."

"She is," House and Wilson replied simultaneously.

But only Wilson added, "Well, she was. She easily could have –"

"Stopped stripping?" Cuddy asked doubtfully.

She looked like she wanted to say more – say more _judgmental_ things, House instantly corrected. Which could have been really amusing, he understood. Hearing her take on the role of the stereotypical woman unable to resist being prejudiced against an incredibly hot chick taking off her clothes would have been _hilarious. _But somehow he thought that Wilson wouldn't be similarly amused.

So he told her, "That's nothing. You should have seen him with the duck."

Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open. She looked like a child who'd just been told for the first time that gullible wasn't in the dictionary. She was horrified at the thought but convinced that it was also the truth. "You had _sex_ with a –"

"There was no sex!" Wilson was half-shouting hysterically. "It wasn't even a real duck."

And though it was the truth, what he was saying sounded lame enough to be a lie.

Using this to his advantage, House said with a smirk on his face, "That might have been what you thought at first, but once it started _quacking_, surely you realized…"

Wilson opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but Cuddy held up a hand to tell him to stop. Her eyes closed as though she were trying to wipe the image from her mind, it took a beat to ask, "There was _quacking_ involved?"

"_No_," Wilson whined loudly, his dark eyes imploring her to believe him.

When that didn't work, he turned his attention back on House. "Why did you say that? _Why_ are you telling her this… this _garbage_?"

The questions weren't as angry as they could have been. If anything, this was all at a normal level of Wilson irritation, and House was pleased with this. Although he was careful to keep that to himself, he believed it was a good sign.

Shrugging he said, "Hey. If she's dumb enough to believe you enjoy a little bestiality every now and then…"

"So you're just lying to me then," Cuddy stated in a dangerous voice.

"_Duh_."

"And that part about Wilson peeing on your couch," she continued in an undeserving knowing voice. "That was a lie too."

House said nothing in response.

It would be better, he thought, if Wilson had to handle this one on his own.

Casting his gaze innocently on Wilson, House blinked a couple of times in an exaggerated and expectant way. "I don't know. Is that a lie? Who can say?"

"I think you can," Cuddy replied irritably, her arms folding across her chest.

And finally Wilson, perhaps understanding that there was no avoiding the truth, spoke up hesitantly, "Well…"

"It _is_ true?" Her words were caught between being a statement and a question. And though it seemed physically impossible, her eyes widened even further.

Which made Wilson go on the defensive. "Yes, _but_." He held his hands up as if to say, "Hear me out."

When she didn't interrupt, he continued, "_But_ I don't have a problem. _House_ stuck my hand in a pot of warm water."

But Cuddy clearly didn't believe that. "Oh come on," she said doubtfully. "That doesn't actually make you pee. It's an urban legend."

"Tell that to my bladder," Wilson replied immediately. "The hand in the water works, because it worked on _me_." Her doubtful expression didn't change, forcing him to look at House. "_Tell_ her."

At that moment, House knew he had to tell the truth. As funny as it might have been to let Wilson flounder a bit more, House understood that whatever progress he'd made would be lost in doing so.

Rolling his eyes, he admitted to Cuddy, "There might have been a bowl of water involved, but –"

"_But_ that's all there is to it," Wilson finished. "You _made_ me pee on the couch. I didn't have a problem holding it." Saying that, however, only seemed to make him more flustered, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he added, "I'm not incontinent. I don't have a problem. I'm not a baby."

His voice becoming more accusatory once more, he finished by saying, "The only person with an issue is House and his inability to be a mature adult."

Cuddy looked at House at that moment. She didn't say anything at first, and she didn't need to; he could feel her eyes silently roving over him, her mind trying to assess him in the context of Wilson's words. It was as though she was trying to figure out whether or not to admonish him or try and move on from the subject.

But in the end, Wilson made that decision for her. "Don't look at him like that," he ordered her in a fed up tone. "Like you don't know what he's capable of. You've _lived_ with him for two months! Think of how many pranks has he pulled on you since then."

She blinked. "He hasn't pulled any, Wilson."

House wanted to smirk. She was clearly ignoring the event that had only happened days ago. He didn't know why that was; although he didn't really think kicking the useless moron of a hospice worker out counted as a prank, his phone calls, his attempts at getting her back home… those things _were_.

But, hey, if she were willing to look past all of that, he was too.

Wilson, on the other hand, wasn't ready to take her at her word for it. "He hasn't done anything. That's what you're telling me."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying he's been _perfect_ – just that, for all of his immaturity, he hasn't felt the need to stick my hand in a bowl of water at night."

Hearing about his own perpetual adolescence, House felt the urge to stick his tongue out at her. He didn't, of course, settling for a _way_ more mature scowl in her direction. Which Wilson clearly noted and immediately commented on. "Yeah, he really seems like he's learned how to act his age."

"Says the person who sawed through my cane," House replied immediately.

Once again, this shocked Cuddy… although for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. "You _sawed_ through –"

"It was justified," Wilson said in a manner so haughty that it was almost easy to forget that they were talking about hurting a cripple. "_He_ started it, and if you were in my position… though I don't understand _why_…"

His voice trailed off, and House and Cuddy looked at him, waiting for him to finish the thought.

But Wilson didn't say anything right away. His gaze darting back and forth between House and Cuddy, it was obvious that Wilson was drawing some sort of conclusion about the situation, about their _relationship_.

A _wrong_ conclusion, House decided as Wilson, features filled with shock, explained, "You two _are_ sleeping together!"

House smirked at the accusation while Cuddy practically shouted, "_No!_"

Admittedly it was _not_ a good way to start off a defense or denial. If anything, the combination of their behaviors just made them look guilty. And though they hadn't been sleeping together (in the slang sense, anyway), their reactions did nothing to convince Wilson of that fact.

So it made perfect sense for Wilson to run a hand through his hair and say, "Oh _God_. You really _are_."

Out of the corner of his eye, House could see Cuddy looking at him as though she were going to kill him if he didn't start denying it. And he must have been too slow for her liking, because no sooner had she glared at him that she was telling Wilson firmly, "We're _not_ having sex. I promise you. I would _never_ –"

"_Never_?" House asked curiously. "Because –"

"Shut up," she warned him in a low voice. "Unless you want me to cut your precious rabbit into a million pieces, _be quiet_."

He hated to take note of it, but his cheeks burned with embarrassment. The admonishment and threat aside, it bothered him to hear her mention Hitler. Now, maybe Wilson already knew about it, and this was a moot point, but House couldn't be sure either way. And he definitely didn't want to hear what Wilson would have to say on the matter regardless. If only because House wasn't sure how to defend himself, he'd wanted to keep the rabbit's existence between Cuddy and himself.

It was odd in a way, because he'd never really cared what other people thought of him before. Then again, he'd never been a fifty-year-old man with a pet rabbit named Hitler before either. And when Wilson's judgment would completely determine whether or not they had a friendship, House resented Cuddy for bringing it up. Especially when Wilson, his eyebrows raised, asked, "Rabbit?"

House was fast in responding; he certainly didn't want _her_ to talk anymore. "Her nickname for my penis. I keep telling her that I'm really _that_ good and that she's not home alone with her vibrator, but with all those orgasms, it's a little –"

"What part of _shut up_ do you _not_ understand?" Cuddy growled. He opened his mouth to respond, but she didn't let him speak. "_Nevermind_," she continued as she stood up. Her voice authoritative, she explained to both men, "I'm going to go get a drink." House wasn't sure if she actually wanted a beverage or if there were something else going on – like, say, she was pissed at them both or wanting to give them some alone time so they could work things out.

Whatever her motivation, he simply watched her leave; her plan – whatever it might have been – wouldn't be nearly as effective if he quizzed her about it beforehand. And unlike at work, he _supposed_ he would like her to succeed. So he stayed quiet as she told them both, "When I come back, we're _not_ talking about this anymore. I'm _not_ sleeping with him."

She walked towards the kitchen, her gaze only looking back at them once threateningly.

Not that it did much good, because the second she was more than an earshot away, Wilson said, "So you _are_ sleeping with her."

"Don't be an idiot."

As soon as the words escaped him, House knew he'd misstepped. He hadn't been particularly nasty about it, but at this point, any bite to his remarks warranted a game over. And the last thing he wanted was to earn defeat because of a casual comment he hadn't even meant.

Unfortunately, the only immediate way to soften the blow was to absorb it himself. House _really_ didn't want to stray into self-hating territory. He supposed that it was worth it though if it meant earning Wilson's forgiveness.

Hastily attempting to move past calling Wilson an idiot, House explained, "We both know Cuddy could and _should_ do better than _me_."

His eyes searching Wilson's for any trace of incredulousness, he added, "I wasn't lying when I said she was here out of pity… we're not together."

But the remark didn't appease Wilson. "She's not here out of _pity_," he said with disdain. "She's here, because she _cares_ about you enough to put up with your crap. And if she's willing to do that, then it's _really_ not that much of a stretch to think –"

Refusing to even consider what Wilson was saying, House interrupted with barely concealed agitation in his voice, "It's not like that. Like I said, she can do better than me."

She really could, and House thought that she must have known that as well. If she hadn't, all of their flirting, all of their back and forth over the years probably would have led to more by now.

Although maybe it wouldn't have, he conceded. Whether she knew or not, he most certainly did. And what that meant for him was that he was never _not_ aware of how much better she really was. He was never clueless about how much of a prize she was, and though he hesitated to say the logical, painful conclusion that had been percolating in his mind for the last two months, he did say it. "She _deserves_ better than _me_, and I wouldn't –"

"You wouldn't what?" Wilson demanded to know with a ferocity that surprised House. "You wouldn't take advantage of her feelings for you? You _have._ You wouldn't ask her to be in your life like that? You _have_. You _are_. Every time you get her to defend you, in one way or another, you _are_ using her."

There was no point in denying what Wilson was saying.

He was right.

About all of it.

And House didn't have the words within him to put up anything resembling a fight. He didn't even have the wherewithal to lie to _himself_ about how he was treating Cuddy. So he glanced at the side of the couch instead. His gaze trained on the golden afghan precariously draped over the arm of the sofa, he said nothing.

But he didn't need to, because Wilson sat back down in his chair and said, "The thing is… in a weird way, I _get_ it. You treat her like garbage to push her away, to _prove_ to her that you don't deserve to have her in your life."

There was something in Wilson's voice that suggested that he knew what it was like to do that – to push her away. Experience laced his tone as though he was all too familiar with the concept. Yet he didn't elaborate on the matter.

Instead House could feel a dark set of eyes trained on him, looking, _waiting_ for _him_ to respond. But he didn't say anything. More than anything, he was curious as to where this was going, feeling neither the need to confirm or deny Wilson's words. He was interested in seeing where Wilson might take the conversation.

"And each time you do that, you're _surprised_ when she still talks to you the next day. Cause no matter how much Cuddy _should_ hate you, she doesn't. Every. Time. She forgives you," Wilson told him in disgust. "And you – hating to be wrong or happy about anything – never take that as a sign to be appreciative of what you have."

Wilson laughed humorlessly. "No, _you_ think you have to work _harder_ to push her away."

It was then that House realized that _this_ was why he _hated_ Wilson… sometimes anyway; Wilson had that uncanny ability to say in a few words everything House tried to hide. Whereas Cuddy typically _reacted_ to his façade, Wilson – _only_ Wilson – had a way of seeing past all of that to get to the truth. Masks, defenses, walls – whatever purple prose you wanted to use… Wilson was immune to that.

He could see everything for what it was.

He could see House for who _he_ was.

And the intimacy such knowledge and abilities created was far more powerful than anything House could have ever had with Cuddy.

Oh, she _tried_. She'd been _trying_ so hard for the last two months, and he would always be grateful for that, love her for doing that for him. She put more effort into him than anyone ever should have, maybe more than anyone else ever _had_. He was a lemon of a human being, and that she should ever have ignored that fact made her both the sweetest and the dumbest person he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing.

And still _none_ of it amounted to the totality of what House shared… _had_ shared with Wilson.

Because as hard as she tried, Wilson had never really _had_ to do that. He'd always just _gotten it_.

House had told himself earlier in the day that Wilson clearly didn't understand him anymore, didn't _want_ to understand him anymore if he could say those things. But now House suspected that he _did_.

Wilson _always_ understood.

… Even if he reviled such comprehension.

Which was surely the case now. Wilson was sitting across form him with deduction, understanding, and disgust in his brown eyes. The irises giving it all away, the totality of the look practically screamed, "I hate you, but I still know you, and that makes me hate _myself_."

And as though the realization had suddenly hit him, House felt his body exhale with a shudder. The breath had _literally_ been knocked out of him, and replacing that oxygen was the knowledge of exactly what he had to say.

"I'm sorry."

The words sounded pained. They were _not_ forced; they didn't sound that way by any means. But although it was a simple sentence, it was audible just how depressing it was to take responsibility for it.

Yet Wilson was not moved by the emotion. "You should tell that to Cuddy."

House blinked numbly, as though he couldn't feel his nerves fire or anything else not related to the burning, horrible realization: Wilson didn't get the apology.

It was a cruel irony that left House feeling betrayed and parched.

He wanted a glass of water, though there was no cup for him on the table. But he didn't dare go get one; he was neck deep in an apology that would determine everything.

_Everything_.

Clearing his throat, the weight of the matter resting heavily on his shoulders, House tried again, "I mean I'm sorry for –"

"I know what you meant," Wilson replied smoothly, his voice low. "I was just hoping you'd take the hint and realize that I'm not accepting the apology. Or interested in it."

His words felt like a slap in the face. It might have only been a blow to House's plan to earn Wilson's friendship and forgiveness, but House could feel his cheeks redden nonetheless. And for all of his speaking talents, for all of his ways to manipulate and deflect, all he could say in that moment was "Oh."

"I don't know what Cuddy told you to get you to sit down with me, but I can tell you now that I _didn't_ come here to make up with you." Wilson paused, perhaps to let the heartbreaking words cleave through House's left ventricle. "What I came here for," Wilson said in a calm voice. "Is to tell you that… I'm _done._ No more phone calls. No more pranks. No more free lunches. I'm out. It's _done_."

He ran his left hand parallel to the width of his chest to emphasize the finality of the words.

"You're saying you'll never forgive me?"

House meant for the softly uttered words to sound more like a statement, but somehow, in the space between his throat and his lips, the sentence had morphed into a question.

And that made Wilson angry. His hands clenching into fists once more, he snapped, "You _killed_ my girlfriend. That's different than stealing my iPhone. You _killed_ Amber!"

House ignored the way his aorta seemed to detach itself upon hearing Wilson's accusation. He ignored the way his body felt as though the freed artery began to spray blood and guilt into the pit of his stomach. The feeling was on the verge of consuming him. And he feared that, if he saw Cuddy's sympathetic eyes now, the emotion _would_ overwhelm and send him running into her arms like a scared child.

But with her still in the kitchen, he was able to funnel that hurt feeling into adrenaline, into _motivation._ "You think I wanted her dead?" He shook his head sadly. "I did _everything_ I could to _save_ her."

He swallowed hard, fighting off the memory of his failure. "I didn't want her to _die_."

"Oh, _yes_, you did," Wilson snapped coldly, apparently barely able to even register the hurt inside of House. "You didn't approve of my relationship with her."

"That's a lie. I told you you had my –"

"Your _blessing_?" Wilson offered viciously. Shaking his head, he continued, "If this were any sort of a normal friendship, you would know that I didn't _need_ your blessing. And if you didn't have your head so far up your own ass, you would realize that I never had it _anyway_. You were _always_ trying to break us up."

For a brief moment, House sat there speechless. His stunned silence came to him unexpectedly, because, to be honest, he'd already figured out how Wilson would interpret the events of the last six or seven months. House had deduced that he would be blamed for all of it going wrong, for all of the time not spent with Amber. And hearing Wilson say that now came as no surprise.

But nevertheless, House didn't speak. Truthfully he didn't exactly know how to respond. Should he apologize? Defend himself? He wasn't sure what the best move would be, although he did recognize that taking either path could lead to disaster. If he apologized and Wilson didn't believe him, game over. If he defended himself and Wilson didn't accept the defense, game over.

Nothing, he realized, was a guarantee, and in the end, lost in his indecisiveness, House spoke slowly. Calmly he chose his words as he went. "I never believed you needed me. I always knew how this friendship worked: I… needed _you_."

He looked away from Wilson as soon as the words had been uttered. As much as House would have liked to gauge his audience's reaction, he was too afraid of what that response might be. Obviously it was cowardly, but he preferred cowardice to any more pain.

His gaze focused on the afghan spread across the arm of the couch once more, he continued to explain. "I didn't give you the okay, because I thought you _needed_ it."

"Then why –"

"Because it needed to be said," House spit out quickly. But it was with less speed that he continued. Almost as though his mouth had run out of gas, he sputtered to find the right words. And his thumb running along his brow, he said, "Because… I wanted you to know I was… trying… to, I don't know, back off, I guess."

He frowned at the choice of words but kept talking. "I didn't want to lose you, but I… was trying to let you go. I was _trying_," he stressed.

Wilson threw his hands in the air. "But then you thought… what? 'That's too hard, so I'll break them up'?"

House shook his head once solemnly. "I wanted you to be happy. But I also knew that without you, I'd be completely _alone_." His voice broke on the last word, and he swallowed back the bitter taste of fear and regret. "I just didn't want to lose you."

The words hung heavily in the air. A truth he'd never wanted to speak of emitted into the heavy, heated climate, it made him sweat with the realization that he couldn't take it back.

Ever.

There was no rewind, no undo… no forgetting how he'd uttered his greatest fear of all: losing his one and only friend.

Just as there was no ignoring Wilson's harsh reply.

"Well, you _did_," he announced sarcastically. "You murdered her. And with that, you killed any hope of us ever being friends."

House had known the words were coming; he'd known that resolution would never be quite so simple.

But it _killed_ him to hear Wilson say those things nonetheless.

And it angered House as well.

Although that might have been the head trauma talking, he couldn't help but feel _enraged_.

He hadn't expected things to be easy, but he also had expected his honesty to leave him empty handed in the end either.

"All I wanted," he insisted, "was to know that I had a place in your life. I didn't want to hurt her. Or _you_."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but House stopped him. "She was important to _me_ too. I worked with her, saw her everyday for months. I _know_ what I did. I _know_ what you lost."

"But you still want me to forgive you," Wilson deduced in a sad, knowing voice.

House couldn't deny that fact. Yes, he _did_ want his friend to forgive him. But he only nodded his head once before adding, "I want it, but I don't expect it. I _want_ it," he repeated, making a grabbing motion with his right hand. "But I know I don't deserve it."

Wilson remained unmoved. "And yet, you have Cuddy bringing me –"

"That was all her," House admitted. "I had nothing to do with that…. If she'd asked me, I would have told her _not_ to bring you here."

His voice was filled with honesty, especially when he said, "You don't deserve this – this conversation. You didn't deserve any of it." He shrugged. "What you're doing… not talking to me, _not_ being in my life – I more than earned that."

Whether it was those words or his overall commitment to the sentiment that gave Wilson pause, House didn't know. Either way, the fact of the matter was that Wilson's eyes seemed to soften then; the why completely damned in House's mind, he didn't care how he'd managed to make this breakthrough.

He just cared that he _had_.

No questions asked.

Of course, if House _had_ asked, Wilson wouldn't have known what to say. Forgiveness wasn't coming suddenly, but a cool trickle of the feeling was beginning to seep into his bones. And though he couldn't spot the crack in his exterior that had allowed for it to happen, Wilson could _feel_ it nevertheless. The tension in his muscles was beginning to ease, the ramrod stiffness of his back settling into something less formal. His once overwhelming hostility no longer consumed him, and he was able to look at House with clearer eyes.

The man Wilson had desperately wanted to break was clearly already broken.

He hadn't wanted to believe it at first, but it was impossible to deny it anymore. Everything House was saying, everything he was doing pointed to the same thing – that House _already _felt as guilty as was humanly possible. He _already_ blamed himself, _already_ accepted that he had been the one in the wrong and that he had been the one to kill Amber and destroy their friendship.

And to be honest, Wilson couldn't help but feel that that revelation was _completely_ anticlimactic.

He supposed he could have been relieved by the fact that House accepted his part in what had happened. Surely, it was better for him to feel guilty than for Wilson to have to explain to him why killing Amber was wrong.

Or if not relieved, Wilson thought he could have at least mustered up the courage to continue being annoyed. If he couldn't take solace in this turn of events, then the very least he could do was continue on in his bitter fury. After all, he'd been so angry the last two months, he'd been so consumed by rage, that it should have been second hand at this point to keep that emotion going.

But no.

There was none of those emotions, neither relief nor anger, inside of him. There was _nothing_ inside of him.

He just felt… _numb_.

He felt… completely drained of all emotional response, as though his hatred and regret from the last two months had left him entirely incapable of having any real feelings on the matter.

It wasn't – was _not_ – an act of forgiving House.

It was _not_ like House said those things and every complaint Wilson had had before now was suddenly null and void (truth be told, he _refused_ to let that happen). Because the rational part of himself realized that his criticisms of his relationship with House were valid. Even House himself had essentially agreed as much.

The codependency that had led to Amber's demise, the things that had brought House and Wilson's friendship literally to a screeching halt… it was all very real. And there could be no denying that those things would have to change in order for them to be friends again.

Of course, there was a chance (albeit a small one) that they'd already made those changes. Wilson could concede that much.

For his own part, he'd become a lot less of a doormat in the last two months, this current conversation proof of that. Well, it was if you ignored the part where Cuddy bribed him into coming here, he realized. But even if you didn't, there was still no denying that he'd become more selfish, more angry, more judgmental.

He'd become a far worse person than he'd been eight weeks ago.

But maybe those things would allow for a healthier friendship with House, who ironically seemed (and maybe that was the keyword: _seemed_) like a _better_ person. He seemed capable of adulthood – at least for extended periods of time. He was taking responsibility for the accident; he was _apologizing_ and sharing his feelings. Sure, he was still being cruel to Cuddy, but he'd refrained from shoving parts of her unconscious form into buckets of warm water. And that _was_ progress.

He _was_ changing.

They both were.

But whether or not that was enough for Wilson, he didn't know. Whether they could go without doing _this_, whether those changes would be lasting enough to avoid this kind of disaster in the future…

Wilson had no idea.

And though part of him was admittedly curious to see what would happen, the rest of him was still reluctant.

His body giving only the smallest of giveaways, he finally said, on the subject of each man getting what he deserved, "Well… at least we agree on that."

There was an implication there – that House _had_ deserved to lose Wilson's friendship – but the remark's bite was lost by the conversational tone.

And that did _not_ go unnoticed by House, though Wilson knew it would have been foolish to think that it could.

"Is there any hope for me?" House asked in an almost hesitant, quiet manner.

Wilson's own response was much quicker, to start with anyway. "I don't know…. Maybe."

It hadn't been a no, which in Wilson's mind felt like a yes, like a betrayal of Amber. To even suggest that there could be a friendship again felt like he was spitting in the face of the woman he loved.

Perhaps it was.

But at the same time… it felt like an even crueler betrayal of himself to say no to what House might have been offering. Because for all of these years… more than anything, what Wilson had wanted was a healthier House, a healthier _friendship_ with him. All of this time, Wilson had wanted a friend who could understand the ramifications of selfish, destructive behavior. He'd wanted a friend who could look before he leaped, who could empathize, who could… see Wilson through the most awful things in the world.

And maybe House _wasn't_ like that; maybe the changes he'd made were superficial. But either way, wasn't that a truth Wilson had to find out for himself?

Wasn't it something he _owed_ himself to figure out?

And if the answers to those questions were yeses, then wouldn't Amber be happy for him? Supportive of him?

She'd given him the freedom to say no to her, to get the bed he wanted, even when he had no idea what it was that he really wanted. She'd done so much to encourage his self-exploration, and admittedly, being friends again with House was bigger than a waterbed, but nevertheless, didn't the same rules apply?

Wouldn't a cutthroat… bitch (Wilson's mind stumbled over the words) understand the Ayn Rand-ish need to explore aspects of his life selfishly?

Especially since he wasn't saying all was forgiven, wouldn't Amber be okay with that?

Wouldn't she?

For all of his attempts at reassuring himself, Wilson realized that he was _not_ sure.

Not by any means.

But then he hadn't said _yes_ to House, Wilson reminded himself. And with House looking at him as though it had been a flat out no, Wilson thought his response had been an okay one. Definitely not a _great_ one, but he felt that it would do for the time being.

House clearly didn't like it though, his eyes sad and full of hurt. Which was impetus enough for Wilson to ask, "Did you expect me to answer that with a definite yes? You want a hug and some cookies for an answer instead?"

The deep and maybe uncharacteristic sarcasm seemed to cut House to the core. His lips turning downward into a frown, he replied with a pout, "No. Still _sucks _though."

"You should be _grateful_," Wilson admonished in a voice so breathless it was practically hissed.

Frankly, the presumption on House's part that he somehow deserved a better answer infuriated Wilson.

That alone gave him pause. That alone was enough to make him reconsider giving House a shot.

And House must have sensed this, because he suddenly insisted, "I _am_ grateful. _Really_ I am."

"You sure?"

"I _am_," he stressed. "I just… I don't know." He shrugged apologetically. "It's just that, if you're holding out on a friendship with me, because I'm not doing something you want…"

He never ended up finishing the thought, and Wilson supposed that it was just too hard for House to ask for tips, for ways to improve his odds. To be honest, Wilson didn't blame him for that and ended up finishing the thought for him. "You want me to tell you what to do?"

House didn't say yes or no, which sort of said it all. He simply said sarcastically, "You've never hesitated before." But the harshness of the words was outweighed greatly by the imploring look he was giving Wilson.

And House was right: Wilson _hadn't_ ever hesitated before to give advice. Yet in this case, Wilson wasn't entirely sure what he needed to see from House. Sure, he wanted to see that the changes House made were real and permanent. But how he would know that that was the case… he couldn't put that into words. And if there were something more Wilson wished to see, he didn't know what that was.

Unless…

"You want something to do? Pull the hand-in-the-water trick on Cuddy," Wilson said seriously.

Naturally though, House looked at him with suspicion. "You… want me to make Cuddy pee her pants." It was almost a question he sounded so confused.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"_Because_ she's going to continue to believe that I'm a bed wetter!"

"So?" Honestly House wasn't opposed on principle, although he would have preferred to wait until Cuddy was no longer sleeping in _his_ bed for obvious reasons.

"_So_," Wilson repeated in annoyance, "If you want to be my friend, you'll show me that you want to _protect_ me from unkind opinions. You'll _defend_ me. Or something."

Now Wilson was the unsure one, and House suspected that that had to do with the fact that Wilson was trying to take childish revenge on Cuddy for bringing him here _and_ then also refusing to believe that House's prank had worked.

But House was okay with doing this for him. His bed aside, there were _no_ downsides to this. Tormenting Cuddy might have been wrong on many levels, but it could also be _incredibly_ enjoyable. And if bothering her was the key to getting Wilson back, then why the hell not?

"Consider it done," House said cheerfully. "Anything else?"

"No."

"Want me to sleep with her too? Cause that would be just as easy…"

"No. I'd rather not have to deal with the mental image of _you_ and _Cuddy_… _doing it_," he said with friendly, immature disgust.

And House, brazen and pleased with the way Wilson was clearly warming up to him, was about to say something dirty when Cuddy reminded both men that she was still around. Obviously having heard what they were talking about, she angrily stormed back into the room.

Whoops.

"You two are _still_ talking about this?" Cuddy demanded in a shrill voice that surprisingly didn't make his ear ring.

She stomped in front of the couch, coming to stand over House with her hands on her hips. She looked at him as though she blamed him for the topic of conversation, and he guessed that _technically _she was right.

"_Please_," she said in a voice that negated the polite word. "_Stop_ telling people that we're sleeping together."

"Now, now, _snookums_. We don't have to hide our love," House tormented. One of his hands reached around her to squeeze her ass, but she caught the wandering appendage around the wrist.

"I'm going to kill you," she seethed. "Wilson, it's good you came; you can say your _goodbyes_ to him now."

Immediately she dropped his hand in order to use hers as a weapon against him. But unfortunately for her, House had expected this and grabbed her hands before she'd landed a single blow.

"Gonna have to try harder if you want to kill me," he teased.

Had she been slow to respond, House might have considered just how inappropriate his words were in Wilson's presence. But lucky for all of them, Cuddy was quick to growl as loudly as she could.

As she tried to wrench her hands free, he considered once more the state of his tinnitus… or rather the stunning lack of it.

If this had been any other day in the last two months, with the amount of noise she was making, he would have been curled up in a ball in pain by now.

But he _wasn't_.

And that gave him pause. He didn't dare, not even for a second, consider that his tinnitus might be _permanently_ gone; he refused to give himself any sort of hope.

But it did make him wonder:

What was going on?

The question was enough to tear him away from what he was doing. It divided his attention, and doing that led him to instinctively loosen his grip on Cuddy.

Her wrists practically free, she yanked her hands back _hard_. So hard that she actually stumbled backwards a few steps. Which would have been fine…

If not for the coffee table covered in food behind her.

House knew what was going to happen before it did, and he couldn't help but watch in horror as the sequence of events unfolded.

Reeling from the force, she couldn't help but move backwards in tiny, uneven steps. One, two, three, four – all in quick succession, she stumbled backwards. And then the backs of her legs hit the lip of the coffee table.

An audible thud mingled with the sound of her surprised gasp. And before she even had time to figure out what was going on, she fell back. Not obnoxiously so, House thought with dismay. He would have preferred the comedic, exaggerated, _I love Lucy_ sort of fall, but this wasn't like that. The force of the collision wasn't enough to send her spiraling over the table. But it _was_ definitely enough to send her backwards even further.

Her arms sprawled out by her sides to catch her body.

But it was too late.

Her hands smacked into a few of the plates, some of her fingers splattering in the sauce for the tofu. And with the loud clink of dishes colliding with one another, Cuddy sat down.

Right on top of the duck.

There was a loud, mushy, moist sounding noise and a look of shock on her face as her considerably sized ass came in contact with the hot food.

"The duck!" Wilson exclaimed, horrified.

Truth be told, Cuddy looked too shocked to move, much less take offense at Wilson's priorities or House's hand in her current position. Her head snapping to face him, she apologized, "I am _so_ sorry. I –"

"Relax," House told Wilson. "The food's still good. Personally I prefer to eat all my meals off of her –"

"Okay, I think I'm done here," Wilson interrupted fervently.

Cuddy apparently didn't understand. "What? What do you mean you're done?" There was a bit of concern in her voice, a clear indication she was worried that Wilson was leaving.

"House and I have come to an agreement."

At this she looked to House to verify what Wilson was saying, which he did.

Things with Wilson weren't as concrete as House would have liked. But he recognized that this was a _start_, an opening, an acknowledgement of what they'd shared and could share again. After all of the back and forth, underneath all of the veneer of hatred, there was still an interest in one another. There was still a desire to know the other person, and House planned to exploit that fact as best as he could.

He hadn't lied when he'd said Wilson was fine without him. Wilson was – _would_ be. But without his friendship, House knew that the same would not be true for himself.

He _needed_ Wilson.

He loved him.

And that fact all but guaranteed that House would do whatever it took to get his friend back.

Wilson was obviously reluctant to trust him once more, but that was understandable. House had yet to prove that anything had _really_ changed.

But he was up to the challenge.

In general, his rule might have been that people didn't change, that they couldn't for the most part. However, he had always allowed for the very rare possibility of change being possible when the person was forced, when something horrible had happened to demand change. And in this case, it went without saying that that had definitely happened here.

He hadn't died (well, _technically_, he had, but it wasn't permanent or anything), true. He'd lived, and usually he believed that almost dying rarely changed anything.

But Amber _had_ died.

And the effects of her death _had_ been real.

And though House had never wanted to change, to remain as he had been would have made all of their pain meaningless.

He might not have been one to believe that the universe had a point, that there was some overarching meaning. But he _did_ believe that to stagnate when his behavior had clearly resulted in suffering was _stupid_.

Completely and unacceptably idiotic.

The adult's version of holding your hand over an open flame and leaving your fingers there to burn.

And there was no way in _hell_ he was going to do that and lose Wilson if that path could be avoided.

House would do whatever it took to go in a different direction.

Nodding his head resolutely, he told Cuddy, "Yup. We're good."

She looked at him as though he'd spoken gibberish. "Are you sure?" she asked with a dignity not appropriate for someone sitting _in_ dinner.

"Yeah."

Cuddy turned her head to look at Wilson. "You?"

"We're fine," he soothed in response before standing up. "And since dinner is… _over_, I think I should go."

She looked pained to see him leave but ultimately kept her reservations to herself. "Yeah… yeah, you're right. I'm sure you have a lot to think about." Her voice had that professional lilt to it, the tone one she usually reserved for concluding meetings with would be donors.

And that impression was furthered by the way she, finally standing up, ushered him to the door with her cleanest hand in the crook of his elbow, as though he were an eighty year old she'd just blown for cash.

Of course, the image wasn't perfect, House conceded. The duck and curry smeared on her ass was something he'd never seen at work (or anywhere else) before.

But other than that, the comparison worked, he thought, as Wilson said to Cuddy, "We'll go tomorrow?"

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

House had no idea what they were talking about, and he watched them curiously to see what information he could glean from them.

"Then I'll pick you up around ten," she said, opening the door.

Wilson nodded his head but said nothing. He was apparently content to end the conversation there, much to House's dismay.

But Cuddy wasn't.

Doing something that made House scoff in disgust, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her stitched lips to Wilson's mouth.

It was a chaste kiss.

Let it be known: she hadn't slipped him the tongue or anything like that.

But House still wasn't a fan. Nor was he a fan of the way she told Wilson in a sweet voice, "You should go back to the house. Get some rest."

There was concern and friendship in the act – nothing more – but House was kind of horrified nonetheless.

Really, why not just call his parents up and have an orgy with them, Cuddy, House thought with disgust, his nose scrunching together.

Trying to sound casual after Wilson left and Cuddy shut the door, House taunted, "On the lips? Cuddy, you're becoming quite the hussy. Pretty soon you'll have to start charging."

She smirked. "Are you jealous?"

He balked at the idea. "_God_. _No_." But somehow saying that just made him seem like he really was jealous.

So it came as no surprise that Cuddy started advancing on him with a mock pout on her face. In a baby voice, she asked, "Aw, does Housey want Mommy to give him a kiss?"

"_No_," he practically screamed. But again, it had the opposite effect than the one he'd intended, so he hastily added, "Sure I'd like to see you naked a little bit, but –"

"No." All of the cutesy taunting had disappeared from her voice, as though the childishness from only moments before were nothing more than an apparition.

"But," he insisted, annoyed that she'd interrupted his train of thought. "What does _that_ have to do with kissing?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Need someone to soap your back? And by back, of course, I mean your ass." His eyes were filled with mischief, and he wiggled his eyebrows for extra effect. "And by soap, I mean –"

"_No_."

She started to walk down the hallway, and he was quick to follow. "Are you sure? Because –"

Her body just over the threshold to the bathroom, she spun around to face him. "Go eat some dinner and leave me alone."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she slammed the door in his face before he had a chance to say anything.

The conversation was effectively over, and he couldn't help but smile then. As he walked back down the hallway, he reminded himself that you couldn't always get what you wanted.

But he was beginning to see that, thanks to Cuddy, he was finally getting what he needed.

The smile still on his face, House went to the kitchen to set out a pot he could use later. He wasn't a big fan of preparing pranks ahead of time, but she was a decently light sleeper, and he didn't want to screw things up by having her wake up before he'd had a chance to toy with her.

Setting the pot on the stove, he could feel his smile turn into a wide grin.

She would never know what hit her.

* * *

She was late to pick him up for their trip to the cemetery. She'd said she'd be there around ten, but Wilson was little more than aware that the clock was rounding noon when she _did_ finally show up… at her own home.

There was a knock on the door, which was weird, because it _was_ her place. And when he answered, Cuddy was standing there in a black dress and suit coat, her attire completely inappropriate for the July heat. Her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her pale skin remained unmarred by the sun's summer rays. And the overall result, in Wilson's estimation, was a severe portrait of a woman who looked overworked, exhausted, and not entirely thrilled to be doing this.

In an appropriately somber voice, she immediately asked, "Are you ready?"

He nodded his head and started to follow her to the car in his own black suit.

But they were barely off the front porch when she apologized in the quickest way possible, "Sorry I'm late. I wanted to get flowers for her grave – I bought lilies – and I'm sorry for the whole bedwetting thing. Turns out it's not an urban legend."

At first he thought he'd misheard her. Sure, he'd asked House to pull that prank on her, but Wilson hadn't ever expected her to admit to it. Yet, looking at her, he could see that her cheeks were flushed. And Wilson only served to accentuate that embarrassment by guffawing. "House put your hand in the water, I take it."

She didn't look at him. Instead, she mumbled, "Lets not talk about it."

At her request, they didn't. Frankly just knowing that House had kept his word made Wilson happy enough.

Not that that feeling would last.

Or could.

He was mindful of where they were headed, and the second they got to the cemetery, whatever joy was in him died – just as everyone who called this grassy tomb home was.

"Where should I park?" Cuddy asked as she steered the car through the winding gravel road.

Swallowing hard, Wilson didn't respond right away. His mouth was paralyzed by emotion, by the fear of letting everything inside of himself out for her to see.

Maybe it had been stupid to bring Cuddy here if he weren't willing to show her the incapacitating grief that he carried around with him on a daily basis. But it was too late now either way, and he just hoped to maintain, at least for now, _some _semblance of control over all of this.

Finally calm, he answered her question. "It's up ahead a little bit." He didn't have the nerve to say grave. "By that split oak tree," he told her as a reference, pointing at it.

"Okay."

But in his mind, _nothing_ was okay.

_Everything_ was wrong.

And not even Cuddy's reassuring presence took away from that, from the clamoring emotions within him and the chaos all around. There was just so much to contend with that, as the car came to a stop, he really just wanted to run back to Cuddy's house and hide in that small place of solace.

Exiting the car, within seconds, he was sweating under the sun's rays; beads of moisture were collecting underneath his arms, along his back, and between the lines of his aging face. It was nearing the height of summer, and he recognized that it was hot, but as they strode to the grave, Wilson could only feel cold.

He shivered, every muscle in his body reacting to the rows of headstones and plaques. The sweet smell of freshly shorn grass and newly plucked and bouqueted flowers filled his nostrils and his mind with the knowledge that life was all around him.

But all he could feel was the cold absence of the woman he loved.

Up until now, he hadn't been to her grave, and somehow being closer to her body in proximity accentuated the chill he felt in his soul. And maybe he'd suspected that that would happen, because save for the day she'd been buried, Wilson had kept his distance.

Part of him wanted to believe that it had been entirely unintentional. He'd just been so wrapped up in other stuff that he'd never thought about it, a voice whispered.

But the rest of him knew it was a lie.

There had been no "stuff."

There'd been grief for her and hate for House and a desire to forget through work and drinking. But there had been nothing to keep him from coming here. Rationally he understood that.

But as he started up the oak-lined hill towards her grave, Wilson could see why he hadn't come.

It was all a reminder that he wouldn't wake up one day with Amber by his side. The headstones, American flags, mausoleums, the wreaths – it was proof that this nightmare _had_ happened, that it _was_ real.

And knowing that he was close to her filled him with such anxiety, such keen anticipation that it was nearly too much to bear.

His heart beat faster.

His feet moved more quickly, and Cuddy was left in the dust as Wilson scrambled up the small hill.

There was no explanation for it, no reason he could articulate behind the impulsive moves. He could only think, with both joy and dread, that in a matter of seconds, he would be near Amber once more.

Finally her grave spotted, Wilson lunged for it.

Immediately he dropped his hands and knees. Wet grass rubbed impatiently against his pants, his knuckles scraping against the marble of her headstone. His fingers, trembling with want, traced her name etched in the stone.

Tears slid down his cheeks, the epithet he'd haphazardly chosen blurring in his eyesight.

Cuddy was nowhere to be seen (she was probably getting her heels caught in the yielding ground), but he was hardly focused on that fact. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that kept his attention was Amber.

He opened his mouth to speak, to talk to her while he still had a chance at having some privacy.

He missed talking to her.

But the only sound that came out was a raspy whimper. And he no longer trusted himself to say any of the things he wanted to tell her.

Needy and needing to be closer to her, he scrambled towards the headstone, closing the minute distance between their bodies as best as he could. The flowers that had once covered the ground had died by now; the grass that had once been unearthed and killed to house her body had grown back. And there was a clear, green path to her now.

His cheek pressed into the ground, his forehead resting against her sun-warmed headstone. As though it were his lover in physical form, he stroked the erected statue tenderly. And though he could not speak, he told her in thought all of the things he wanted – _needed_ – her to know.

_I love you. _

_I'm sorry. _

_I _love _you. _

_I'm sorry for not being strong, for wanting House to change, for wanting to believe that he can, that maybe he already has. _

_I'm_ sorry_. _

He could hear Cuddy's sloppy footsteps on the ground, and suddenly feeling his privacy breached, Wilson whispered to Amber in a voice so low Cuddy surely could not hear, "Some day, you'll be proud of me. _Some day_, I _will_ be worthy of your love."

The words had barely been uttered before he stood, shaking. He didn't look at Cuddy, nor did he say anything as he walked away. The feeling of failure, of grief consuming him whole was overwhelming him, and he didn't have the energy to put the effort into making small talk. So he silently hurried back down the hill instead to get away.

He had to _get away_.

His feet tripping over themselves, mud and cut grass stuck to his shoes, he fled. As fast as he could, he moved.

But he didn't head straight to the car. His body acting on its own volition, he hurried to a nearby oak tree.

The leafy branches swayed lightly in the warm breeze, the rustling sound filling his ears. The tree was old, _sick_. The trunk and roots were dying, decayed, and twisted. Moss and fungus covered the bark in a brilliant but decidedly random pattern, and Wilson felt gross when his hand instinctively gripped onto it for support. His nails dug into the bark, tiny brown molecules falling away like dust.

The world suddenly tunneling in, Wilson bent over. His forehead pressed against his forearm, and he breathed shakily. And then he threw up, unleashing all of the fear and sickness within him onto the earth.

It splattered to the ground, splashed on his pants, and somehow managed to get stuck in his nose. His throat burned; his tongue was thickly coated with the acrid taste of failure and bile.

Snot, sweat, tears, and stray vomit mixed together on his face in a putrid combination. But he could barely register his disgust as he wiped his dirty face on his sleeve.

He just felt _diseased_ and awful… unworthy.

He hadn't deserved Amber.

He hadn't deserved Cuddy's support or House's desire to change.

He didn't deserve anything or anyone.

His pain clouded his vision, and he let out an awful sob that shook his entire body. And he didn't even realize that Cuddy was there until she placed her now empty hands on his sweaty back and said with concern, "Wilson?"

He was in her arms before he even realized that he'd turned around.

Collapsing against her soft, sweetly scented body, he could hear the tearful sympathy in her voice. "It's okay," she repeated over and over as though the more she said it, the more true it would be.

His face buried in her neck and hair, Wilson felt that the effort wasn't necessary on her part. He recognized the truth in her words intuitively.

… Things probably would be okay.

Cuddy would keep being his friend. His patients and House's staff would forgive him for needing time to adjust. And even House himself seemed eager to make the choices needed to be friends once more.

So Cuddy was right.

Everything would be okay and eventually return to normal. The status quo would be restored as it always was.

Wilson's gaze trained on Amber's grave in the distance, Wilson couldn't help but think:

That was precisely the problem.

_The End_


End file.
